The time that Laura changed all her dogs’ names to those of tiny little dwarves with various disabilities.


I got a lotta friends who are doctors. Some are animal doctors, some of them just sat through enough PhD school to get some doc letters before their name. Let’s just call them all doc.

Our friend doc took a look at Blinky’s eyes yesterday, that I thought had been looking kinda, sorta not right, and said she has to go the fancy, special dog opthomologist who is only open during hours I can’t leave work. Like go to fancy doc now. In doc language, we like to call that STAT. Even though by we I mean I just have a MFA, didn’t sit through enough school to get doc letters. Good thing. Because my kinda sorta not right diagnosis was, actually, just not right.

Earlier in the day, Limpy’s orthopedic doc uttered the words, “Well, you COULD get the MRI done…” when I was suggesting possible alternatives to 8 weeks of crate rest that I had invented using my clearly lame powers of MFA skills in orthopedic diagnosis. Because the real doc’s idea is like all the time in a crate. And only coming out to pee and poop, on a leash. And then back in the crate. For 8 weeks.

Spooky’s diagnosis the other night, by a doc friend, let’s call him doctor of dog agility, was just shaking his head, after watching the little fella knock out another fast and consistent, and just well, NORMAL course without spookies, and agreeing, weird.