I am destined to never, ever have a new car, or a dog that poops normally. Sophie's diarrhea has never quite gone away, and now it's back with a vengeance. Still no accidents in the house, because she's amazingly good, but when she goes, oh my - it's a spluttering squirt gun of brown liquid. That can't feel good! Our longtime, trusted vet is stumped by Sophie's continuing bouts of diarrhea, and we're going with a full panel of outside lab tests. This involves my somehow catching a sample for them and getting it to their offices while it is "fresh." Yes, I have to catch liquid diarrhea in mid-air in a cup, transfer it to the sample container, and deliver it to their office, hopefully without getting any on myself and having to rush to change my clothes before work. Other people might think this is weird, but after years of Murphy, for me it's just Thursday.
And why isn't it Friday, may I ask? It should be Friday. I'm tired.
As I write this, the cat is sleeping in her little bed on the porch, the picture of contentment. Yesterday I offered her a bite of chicken by hand, and she backed up and hissed at me and started to run away, but she really did want breakfast so she was just faking that outraged retreat. As soon as I said, "Suit yourself," and dropped the bite in her dish, she strolled over and began to eat. I can get close to her, but no touching allowed. She's curious about Sophie and lets her get quite close without hissing at her. Yesterday they got within a foot of each other without drama - the cat sat calmly, Sophie stood quietly, and they stared at each other for a full minute, sizing each other up. I think the cat has concluded that Sophie's in charge, and I'm just the servant with thumbs. I think the cat may be right.