Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Monday, September 24, 2012
One pissed off Pickle and one pesky Punkin...
Pickle is peeved. Even though we dodged this bullet for a long, long time, we got FLEAS. Nuts. And Pickle ate the fur off her rump, so off we went to the vet for a buttload of medications, for both the poopies. Pickle is not the trooper her big brother was. Boo would have worn that blasted collar for the rest of his life if I asked him to. But Pickle moped. I picked her up and put her outside. Half hour later, she was still sitting where I set her down. Sigh. And Punkin is so worried, he makes all kind of really obnoxious noises, sort of like the kind the smoke detector makes when its battery is dying, little supersonic bleeps that sear the eardrums. And he did this the whole first night of this ordeal, too. Really, he is just worried about his big sister. He sits by her and whines a lot, too. Keeping him in the bedroom with me just meant he could only bother ME. So, I let him sleep out in the general population last night so I could get some rest. Owies do heal, and the collar will go back into the closet for the next time. Just hoping it will be the Punk when it happens. Life would be a lot quieter. Meanwhile, major milestone, Pickle got herself, collar and all, out the dog door, and back in again. Small miracle, that.