The Divine Miss M and I: she loves me (and I confess I feel the same)!

Feeling a bit lovesick now that the
Divine Miss M has returned to her home state.

Everywhere, it seems, there are babies. Out the window, the cardinal babies cry for food. So do the downy woodpecker babies, the oriole baby (just one so far), the starling babies, the sparrow babies. You get the idea. We've also got baby chipmunks (grr!) and baby squirrels.

So it wasn't surprising when a human baby showed up. This one, a 10-month-old I'm calling the Divine Miss M because she certainly comported herself like an angel, became an inside pet for a day or so. A stay too brief, it turns out. Anyway, every time I came near, she shrieked, just beside herself with delight.

That is not the usual reaction humans have to me. I mean, I get lots of compliments on my size, handsome appearance, and voice. But delighted shrieking? Atypical.

So of course I fell in love with her, immediately, and she with me.

Her behavior since meeting me, her mother reports, has been a bit over the top. She's taken an interest in the stuffed puppy she formerly ignored, resorted to stealing another's and absconding with same, and scopes out each dog she comes across, I assume in a desperate search for me.

My behavior? Without Miss M, I've been feeling a bit low. Being adored is pretty nice. So today, make sure you tell someone you love them.

Forget the South Beach diet: it's the London (broil) diet for me

This diet worked so well that my body practically disappeared!

Those folks across the pond have it down, that's for sure.

"Is London broil OK?" the deli guy asked my mom.

London broil, I can tell you, absolutely is ok.

I've been getting the pampered treatment lately, and boy, do I deserve it.

I've got about 25 staples in my back, another few in my armpit (I can't see them, so they remain uncounted) and a nasty limp as a leftover from an intravenous feed--phlebitis, apparently. All I know is that it hurts.

My neighbors probably all have been late for work this last week or so, as I haven't been up to the task of waking them all up. I've been so knocked out by surgery that I've barely said a word.
(A word to you dog owners: get all of those lumps and bumps checked. Some of them aren't just extra pudge. That was the case with me. )

Lest you fear for my welfare,  the doc at IVG in Natick thinks I'm going to be A-OK. I'll just make sure she insists on some roast beef in my regular diet from now on.

Here's the deal: all that extra protein must be working. Today, mom decided it was time for me to reenter society. When she actually said the entire word usually spoken as C-A-R, I practically knocked her over.

That's not hard to do, because she's still limping from the Boston Marathon. I mean, get over it already. I'm so over having matching limps.

Neighbors, throw out your alarm clocks. I"m back!
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In case you were wondering about the origin of the term "London broil," this way of cooking and serving beef appears to have nothing at all to do with London. Apparently the method is an American invention and is not found in British cookbooks. Thank goodness I'm an American, not English, hound!