I remember when we brought you home to Tucson from a post-holiday visit to Arkansas. The magical color of moonlight, you were a littler version of the same "good boy" that you are today.
We've seen a lot, you and I, been to many places and weathered many changes. You were my (mostly) willing subject while I spent those great many hours studying canine anatomy, practicing strokes and gearing up for my animal massage certification.
You have loved with me, cried with me and been forever by my side during even the darkest hours. I may protest when others say I love you more than I love them, but I know you understand that's just my way of placating.
Thank you for being my best friend. May the moon shine brightly for at least another seven!
Yesterday was all about the animals. They were due for their annual exams and vaccinations, so we loaded the three of them up and paid a visit to the local animal hospital, where they were sufficiently probed, palpated and pricked. "Lucky devils," Mark said.
We also had to replenish our stock of spot flea treatment. Cha-ching.
So $350 later, fully immunized and the pictures of health, they have the audacity to sit and glare at us for making their lives hell. Mmhmm.
Oh, and Roger is happy as a lark with the new rug. He's no longer afraid to cross from the stairway to the dining room.
Roger, our Schnauzer, has developed a worsening phobia of wood flooring over the past few months. I don't get it. We've always had hardwood floors, even in our Tucson house where we raised him during the first year and a half of his life. Now he just stands and wobbles like a clumsy tapdancer while trying to figure out how to cross the living room floor.
On the interwebz, I've read similar complaints from others, and the advice offered is that it's because the dog can't get any traction on the slippery surface, but that doesn't seem to fit here. Roger has never had this problem before, regardless of the length of his nails or how recently buffed the floor might have been (which is practically never).
Anyway, we're off to by an area rug now. We'll see if that helps.
I wrote a poem for Homer and his chicken, Henny-Penny. When I lived in Homer's guesthouse earlier this year, and even though I grew tired of stepping in chickenpoo, I liked having Henny-Penny around. Her gentle clucking was strangely comforting, and she certainly kept Martha the Puppy entertained.
Anyway, I hope Homer likes the poem, despite its unfortunate ending. For the record, I bear no ill-will toward the chicken. Let's just call it poetic license.
The Tale of Henny-Penny
Henny-Penny went to town To have her tooth capped with a crown, (But Henny-Penny hadn't really any).
For Henny-Penny had eaten rocks, Mistaking them for Homer's socks, And heard a crack that made her quack, poor Henny!
While on her way to see the dentist (Or perhaps his handsome male hygienist), Henny-Penny felt her tummy rummy.
She stopped and bowed her head down low; She cocked her eyeballs to and fro And spied a lovely beetle lying fetal.
Without delay she took the plunge, And at the insect she did lunge, And with one peck did gobble up the bauble.
Alas, the truck she did not see, Nor realized that in the street she be! Poor Henny is now flat as any penny.