My poor pooch. For those of you don’t know Farley dog is my dog. I’ve had him since he was 12 weeks old and just a little lump of pup. Now he’s creeping up on 9 years. I brought him to the vet on Saturday and got some pretty bad news: the pooch has Lyme Disease. At first it sounds like a really cool disease. I picture Farley hanging out with a Corona, maybe on top of some nachos, or eating a nice, cold sherbet. But, no, it isn’t that exotic. Instead, he was bitten by a tick which transmitted bacteria into him. Now he’s on a nice regimen of antibiotics, three large pills twice a day.

Sigh. My dog is broken. He has bugs.

While at the vet they remarked about how wonderful he is as a patient. They could poke him and prod him and wiggle him and draw blood and he just sits there and takes it, no arguing or whining. He’s my little guy; my little trooper. He’s my bestest friend in the world and now he’s sick. Stupid bugs. Everyone oohed and aaahed at him. Other dogs would walk into the place and be yapping and good ol’ Farley just lay at my feet, curious as to why the other dogs and their owners were behaving like morons.

Yesterday, Angela assigned me with a really crappy dog-related task, too. I had to bring both boys to the vet. Ugh. What’s worse is that when I got there they made me wait for, I shit you not, 55 minutes.