A Moving Plea

This is the time of year when my dogs most personally resent the "lifestyle choices" that spouse and I have made. They say, yes, meat is murder, but surely turkeys are only manslaughter. They see the Thanksgiving grocery store commercials on the television and smell giblet gravy and turn up their flat, leathery noses at Tofurky. If you and your family have any extra table scraps for these spoiled, fat, farting bastards, please mail them to our house in a greaseproof envelope so they will shut up.

Ground Control to Major Dog...

For some reason, I am compelled by ungodly forces to report when my dogs have to go to the vet. Today, Hazel had to have a thorn removed from her paw, just like Aesop's fable, except that instead of a lion, it's a dog who looks like a bat and sounds like a pig, and instead of a mouse, it's a vet, and instead of exchanging favor for favor, he charged us $700.
And now I have a Space Dog, because she can't stop licking her foot. I think my dog is like a person in many respects, but if you had a hurt foot, your solution would never be: lick all the hair off, and when it's red, swollen, and irritated, keep licking.

Never stop licking.

Maybe there's a lesson we can learn here after all, about where persistence gets you- in a space dog collar.