Watson, the dachshund, has been poorly since yesterday and today Mark brought him around to the vet at the animal shelter. We have to feed him pills. He has gotten an infection, so he has to eat antibiotics for the next week or so.
Usually Watson is this active little thing that run all over the place, and wants to investigate everything that happens, but last evening he just kept to his basket all the time, and then Mark discovered that he had thrown up. So, off to the vet he and Mark went, and Watson didn’t even protest when he was put in the animal cage. Usually he abhors that thing. The vet said he had an infection.
It should be all right after treatment, but the dog just looks so miserable at the moment, as if all the life has gone out of him. He just lays in the basket, and his little tail wag feebly when we come to look at him.
Lady has been there to give the poor thing a lick now and then, as if to reassure that everything will be all right. George just watches; maybe he wants the basket once the funeral is over, and maybe he pesters Watson about his will when we’re not watching.
It’s a new week, a new set of choices to make. We still have that formal on Friday. I still have to wash my suit and tie. I still enjoy fantasies of showing up stupendously drunk, with lewd sea shanties in mind. Yes, I’ve been playing Assassin’s Creed Black Flag, and for that reason sea shanties are popping into my head.