Dear Diary....

November 2, 2009

Hard work today--successfully restrained myself from throwing my laptop through the window, and got the work done, too.

Plus, Squeak threw up blood!  He probably heard us talking about my niece, who rescued a stray dog from the street in Naples yesterday.  As she was driving around it, it raised its poor head and looked straight into her eyes.  Being a kind person, she stopped traffic, got out and wrapped the dog in her sweatshirt, and hauled him home.  There are no English-speaking vets in Naples, so she had to wait until this morning to take him into the vet on post.  Last night, though, she said he had a broken leg and was vomiting blood.  I imagine he is on the rainbow bridge, as my niece calls it, by now--if not on the other side already.  But maybe not. I remember Josh surviving a hit by a panel truck back in the 70s.  He managed to limp back to the shop and stand swaying in the back, where the overhead doors were wide open to the outside and fresh air. He had blood running from his nose and mouth. Mary, who was working in the back, said "There's something the matter with that dog!" Off to the vet with him, and the prognosis was grim.  But HE survived.

Meanwhile, Squeak is at the vet here now, and the vet is going to do some blood work. What? No xrays?  No MRIs? Probably a good case of parasites. Squeak loves to supplement his diet with whatever he can find on the sidewalk or in the tall grass. He's been vomiting regularly since last Friday, when they installed all new carpet!  I yelled at him today for barfing on the carpet again, and woddya know, he directed his next four throwups to the kitchen tile!

So it's dog vomit day in Naples and DC.

I am not a dog lover like some.  And it always amazes some dog lovers that their dogs come to sit by me or lie at my feet when I visit. I disapprove of the dogs lollygagging on the furniture and eating food off the kitchen counter. I disapprove of the dogs' lack of obedience and good doggy manners. But ha.  The dogs still like me--more, it seems, than they like others who are more tolerant.

It's the day George Bernard Shaw died, at the age of 94. I was in the 8th grade at St. Mary's in Fargo that day, and I had never heard of George Bernard Shaw. I always thought he was English, but ha!  he was IRISH.