|Me in pancake mode, although these photos were taken some|
time ago when I was rather portly, lessening the flat effect.
I eagerly exit my vehicle, thinking I'm going for a playdate at the kennel, but no dice. Instead, I am examined by some very loving and competent people. They kindly ask after my welfare.
Is he eating? Oh, yes, says Mom. Especially since the medicine needs to be taken with food, twice a day, twelve hours apart. Let's face it: I'm not up for 12 hours at a stretch, or any stretch, for that matter.
Say I eat at 9 a.m. and have my med. There's no way I'd be up at 9 p.m., and the promise of my ordinary chow would definitely not be enough to make me open my eyes. So Mom and Dad bring me peanut butter laced food, with antibiotics discreetly tucked inside, directly to my chair. I barely have to lift my head to eat. Then I immediately go back to sleep.
Is he lethargic? Well, it's hard to tell, says Mom. I know what she's thinking: my usual mode is pancaked on some horizontal surface, pretty much all day and all night. My other usual mode, as exhibited at the clinic, is wild. I like to change things up just to keep life interesting.
Anyway, Mom has been worried about my weight, so she is thrilled when those late-night feedings add three pounds to the scale.
Just 35 more days to go, and then I'll be a free man. If I can get my folks to keep up the peanut butter treatment, I'll be a more substantial one, too. In the meantime, Mom keeps scouring neighborhoods near Lilja school on the lookout for my attacker, accosting and interrogating everyone she sees.
Talk about rabid—I wouldn't be surprised if someone reported her to animal control.