This entire blog is turning into a dog blog. Is this what generally happens to a childless divorced thirty-something woman? I'm going to try to write something of substance again soon. It seems that words come more easily when I'm miserable. I guess that being un-miserable is a good thing. Except for this blog.

So I'm washing dishes this evening (the daily meditation) and when I finish I turn around to find my dog lying on the floor licking a bloody gaping wound on his side. It's the size of a quarter. And it's bloody. Really bloody. After cutting the fur around the wound so that I can see better I discover two deep holes in his flesh. Looks like a vampire bite. But there's stuff coming out of the holes. Not just blood. Other stuff. More horrible stuff. I gag. Billy just lies there and wags at me. I gather random bandages and tape and neosporin. Neosporin is my windex. It solves all problems. Once I finish covering up the wound I tie an Ace wrap around Billy's gut. He wags at me. And I burst into tears.

Sometimes I am fragile.

Tomorrow, back to the vet . . .