Big Brass Ones

A fine figure of a dog

That would be I, of course. Or me, if we are to be idiomatic. But, one way or the other, c'est moi, as Phoebe could no doubt be prevailed upon to admit. If one had a largish stick with which to prevail upon her.

So, yesterday, I went to the vet for some booster shots and my annual physical. They started out with a weigh-in, of course. Turns out I've gained three pounds since I was last weighed. I am now a robust 78 pounds.

I know many of you get a lot of flak from your people, who get a lot of flak from your vets, every time your ribs sink a little deeper into their Crisco-like covering. (I'm not trying to be cruel here, Littermates, it's just that... Well, OK, maybe I am trying to be cruel--just drilling for the nerve, as Charlie Harper would say.) But my vet pronounced me fit and trim and well filled with p!ss and vinegar, as it were. I have merely finally grown into my skeleton, is all.

Is it any wonder I like the folks at the vet? Sure they poke me with needles. And slip the occasional (well lubricated!) thermometer where the sun don't shine--or perhaps from where the sun does shine, now that I think about it. But they unfailingly recognize me for the magnificent beast that I am. And you gotta like that, Littermates.