Hasn't my life or your own life come down to work, animal/child care, more work? Gosh I remember the person I was meant to be and dipping and diving around a loose, 77lb animal (found out he is boxer and American Foxhound, and he is so much boxer that like an old woman who has young hair...if she just wouldn't turn around, you'd know no better) the idealist came back out.
But Skeeter lost his shorts mid afternoon Thursday and I mean he left me two cowpie-sized droppings for questioning. EXAMPLE: "What the hell are you doing inside of my dog to come out of him like this?"
How many issues of the New York Times does it take to save carpeting? (Note ANOTHER reason to subscribe to a hard copy newspaper.) Well, I wasn't laughing at the time. The place smelled like a Russian prison; I mean that I could nearly see the interior walls had changed from boring white to morose and dank concrete brick with damp running down and rats not far away. I am a seer for what it's worth. But in the dank morose interior appeared the glow of a cell phone and the number to the emergency vet (we like them).
Whatever he had, likely behavioral (in that he is stark blank in love with me), with forti flora, oatmeal, pumpkin, and amoxicilian (sp), he is saved solid. Wonderful thing he did at the vet before we left, given I was dinged walking in and I was dinged walking out (actually it wasn't that bad except I know the actual cost of the antibiotic and it's nothing near what we were charged), Skeeter the lovely dog URINATED in the entryway of the waiting area. So, ideally the wonderful people had to move a mop, perhaps wondering what happened to their original self to explain: It's okay (don't call me) ma'am. We'll clean it up.
And then I should just give a shout out to the Rug Doctor. It's the machine of all rug machines, and it's one way to spend a Thursday night.