Ominous, much?

I was wondering where the 21st Street pigeons were this gloomy afternoon, but then I looked up...

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heuugggh, ganache, hhorck

I was awakened last night by the honks of a maddened goose, or perhaps a bull elephant, in bed next to me. (I know, but I'm a single lady, so I was a little taken aback.) It was my sweet Annie, who was either trying to vomit up something truly dreadful, or suffering from aspiration pneumonia from all the recent pills.

So off we went to the vet this morning with Pete in tow as well, as he likes to come along for the fun of it and we never waste a walk.

Even though she had done some excellent honking in the waiting room, Annie wanted to be at her best for Justin (the very handsome vet tech) and clammed up on the table. But the vet, from the noises she had overheard as we came in, and in the absence of busted guts or pill-filled lungs, declared kennel cough. She asked how’s Pete, I said just perfect as I gave him an encouraging thump on the ribs, and gaack, blergh, honk. So she wrote two prescriptions, and told me that this was a courtesy visit. Life is good.

Then she removed some of the rosy from my day by saying that we would be contagious for about three weeks, even after they’re done whooping it up.

But officer, I didn't mean to...

Westminster, even for a mere interested observer, is the most exhausting dog show ever. I go there only to socialize, and find myself staring blankly at people who I've known for years, and kicking myself all the way home because I've met exciting new people and only said "nice dogs this year" when I really have a TON of things to say to them, or, more to the point, ASK them. I just can't imagine how the people who are actually there with their dogs hold up so well. I suspect I'd be curled up in a crate weeping by mid-afternoon.

And we all know what a tribute it is to the temperament of the spinone that the dogs hold up so beautifully. We were benched near Dogues de Bordeaux and Dobermans, and every once in a while there was some notable evidence of tempers fraying.

I drifted away from the dog show at about 4:00, fully intending to return in an hour after walking my dogs at home. But once I was home, Pete and Annie were SO glad to see me that I walked them, fed them, and settled down on the couch with them for just a LITTLE rest...

Just as I flipped on the TV to watch the sporting group from the comfort of my living room, Pete started doing the FETCH OF MISCELLANEOUS UNSOLICITED OBJECTS. (This behavior proves that I am really training him, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, and should not be discouraged.) So he brought me a sock, then a leg from a dismembered squeaky, then a wire coat hanger (NO!), all of which I received with gratitude and loud praise. But then, what does he bring me? Oh saints.

Don't worry, it had a happy ending, but I remind you: Make sure all medications are up high in a cupboard; spinoni are always happy to get things from the tops of pianos and bookshelves, and are work in close cooperation with cats when you aren't looking. Discard empty pill bottles some place that they can't be gotten back from. Try harder to remember how empty or full the pill bottles you keep are. Don't assume that your GOOD dog can be trusted, there is no such thing as an angel spinone. And above all, if your middle-aged memory (called by some "encroaching senility") cannot be relied on to cough up really essential information in an emergency...

Well, I forget, but I'm pretty sure I won't forget Tuesday night for a long time.

You kiss your mother with that?

It has been suggested that I put my money where my mouth is, and I have therefore accepted a nomination to run for office in my dog club. Nobody appreciates the tireless suggester any more. Since I'm currently self-employed (no, that's NOT code for unemployable), I have the time to devote to my duties should I be elected. And is there any better way to ensure that I immediately find a job, or at least a client who wants all my time?

The Unexamined Life

It is very cold, and besides, I have one, so I am simply not in the mood to do anything useful at all. Instead, I took a nice hot shower, with Hector the cat snuggled in between the shower curtains enjoying the warmth and Pete lying low on the bathroom floor hoping I didn't get inspired to wash any dogs. This was such a success that I finished up and promptly filled the tub, grabbing my New Yorker and immersing myself in both.

As I wallowed and, with growing horror, realized that this week seemed to be the doomsday issue, I noticed that Hector was shifting his position on the edge of the tub. At first I thought perhaps he, like I, was reading attentively to see if Vermont, Alaska or the sailboat was the better way to prepare for the end of Life As We Now Know It, but no. He was just getting a drink. (He also likes spinone water, so I just don't ask.) You know what happened.

Head stuffed, bosom bloodied, cat wet...February 1.