Rose's Cantina

Last Friday evening, Scott turned Sophie on her belly to examine her two week old stitches from her spay. "Call the vet tomorrow. This incision doesn't look very good." The "tomorrow" was Saturday and our vet isn't in on Saturday. It's one of these doctor-lifestyle things where vets, like family docs, would rather be running the New York marathon than tending to pets on the weekend. Sure enough, when I called, the answering machine instructed me to call the new emergency veterinary clinic that all of the local vets have invested in. The nice lady there advised that it would be a whopping $165 to walk in the door and suggested I call another vet in town. We do have a second vet for Finnigan, but he would have charged me at least 60 bucks as punishment for going to another vet. So we sat on Sophie's stitches until Monday. We arrived with Sophie and Finnigan in tow following our walk at Conroy Pit. "It will take a few minutes," the ...

What a ridiculous day this has turned out to be. With temperatures in the mid 30s, it's too hot to be outside so the dogs are inside driving me nuts. Sophie is just finishing up her heat -- thank the Lord, hopefully, it will be her last -- but Finnigan's gotten all randy all of a sudden. He simply won't leave her alone. Strange, fixed boy dogs, they still want it but don't really know what "it" is so they chase fertile little girl dogs all around, grabbing them, coaxing them, with about three feet between their genitals and the generous opening provided for them. Reminds me of the boys in high school with their gigantic notebooks. Sophie, for her part, wants none of it, which is a good thing because that means she's getting close to being finished. The trapdoor, hopefully, will slam shut. This is news to Finnigan who got doused with my kale juice this morning. We're all fed up. Sophie told me, telepathically, that she's planning to t...