..... could you tell?
The Runt was sick. He's always been a, well, rather conscientious groomer, but over the weekend it got to the point where he was literally licking his fur off and developing bald spots. And then he'd digdigdig at himself until he raised welts. He felt awful, and I felt awful for him, so obviously a trip the vet was in order.
And the lawn mower, which had been acting pissy all season, finally crapped the bed on Tuesday night and was at the shop for repairs.
It was just one of those days when all you can do is sigh and pull out the checkbook.
So when that jerk on the bicycle shit his pants over having to use his brakes (I didn't come anywhere NEAR to hitting him, I swear; he was all pissed off because he had to slow down for me), it was pretty much the last straw. Kind of like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, where he goes all medieval on people's asses.
Hey! Maybe they'll make a movie about me!
And maybe Julia Roberts will play me, just like in the Pioneer Woman movie! (Can you even believe that shit? Jeezus Christ.)
ANYhow, the vet seems to think The Runt has a case of flea allergy dermatitis (which I tend to disagree with, for various reasons, but hey, she's the vet) and she started him on Frontline and steroids. If that doesn't work, I'm to try hypo-allergenic cat food (oh dear Lord), and we go from there.
Poor cat. Although he DID manage to take down a mouse last night after we got home from the vet's, so he must not be feeling TOO poorly.