I have been the raging goddess of doggy doom this morning. I woke to find doggy do on the bed. Yes, that's right, my friends. I was sleeping in dog poo. Well, dog poo was over my feet while I slept, but really, it's a technical difference and doesn't much alter the emotional impact.
Who does that? What dog does that? They sleep in the bed too. Isn't it a critical dog law that they never, ever poop where they sleep? If my dogs are going to poop in their bed and mine, where will they not poop? You see the dilema.
Are my dogs going through some terrible psychic altering trama that I don't know about? I mean, is this a message? And if so, it's a message I wouldn't copy onto my blog, because even I don't use that langauge.
By the size of the poop, I'm pretty sure it was my dog, but they both looked pretty darn guilty. They knew; oh they knew all right.
So now the huge, expensive comforter is in the wash again and I am determined to buy a duvet cover for it. Other than that, I don't know what to do.
In addition, Keith spent the entire day in the ER yesterday. He was feeling fine and then started throwing up again at work. He just kept right on throwing up, for a couple hours until he got everyone else set up and then he went to the ER where he continued to throw up.
Around one thirty he called me, because they had taken blood and were going to do some tests. I drove over there and we spent the rest of the afternoon waiting. By that time, he'd stopped vomitting and was feeling better.
It was a terribly long wait for anything and while we were waiting, we heard a woman come up to the PA in charge and state flatly that she was leaving and would be lodging a complaint.
"I've been here for six hours and I've been seen twice," she said.
There was a sudden flurry of activity and for once, there seemed to be people around, talking and getting stuff done. Keith couldn't just leave though; as active duty military he has to be signed out.
