Thanksgiving

This is an American holiday dreaded by all as it requires face to face family time. We had a great one this year! My mother made a tasty turkey (which is very hard to do), my daughter made all the desserts and I did the veggies. John managed the settings and chairs and us.
We had nine to dinner: we four, Ma, Jean, Anne, Suse and Emily. None of us knew Anne and Emily and that may be why the dinner went so well. Jean and Ma are among the few who read the Jesuit magazine Commonweal and enjoy Jesuitical comment on the world. The rest of us, bar John, Marguerite and Anton are liberal arts types. I was so happy when it was over.
Mickey developed diabetes and now require two shots of insulin a day. The vet, having seen Mickey in full snit, was worried we couldn't give the doses without being bitten. Ha!
Marguerite junior, a genius, quickly found a routine and the damndog runs to get his shots. The routine relys on turkey treats and heaven knows what will happen when we run out. I guess I may have to cook a turkey a month.
Oh well. Turkey is cheap for most of the year.
This morning my brother was found on the floor of his appartment. He's still at the emergency hospital.
I have no idea what to do. The last time I kept him here for months until he could get his appartment and be on his own. The biggest problem is he hates me. He hates Ma too.
For all I know he has reason to hate me, but I can't figure what it is. He's had strokes that leave him nastier than he's been in the past...and manipulative!!!!!!
Since he left here three years ago or so he hasn't spoken to me. So I'm here, next to the phone waiting to see how he goes.

Monday, Monday

Spent a good part of the weekend trying for a glimpse of Mickey's butt. No luck. I think the bump is retreating.
Marguerite came in from the vet with Nook, she'd dropped her cat off at her house. The cat had had her temperature taken and Nooky likes cat's rears. Apparently the vet is still unused to Nooky's size because when he came up from inserting the instrument in the cat who was perched on the high table he looked straight into the damndogs eyes and quickly noted the dog's nose was sniffing with great interest the site of the insertion.
Says Nooky is a freak of nature. NOOOOOOOOO.........Now he's noticed?

Marguerite admitted she like the book. Said it had a good ending. She still hasn't brought it back.

Book

So. We gave the book we wrote-together- gasp- and we're still married ...to our children.  The eldest was too busy to read it. Our daughter told me last night when she came to pick up her damndog that she was almost done.
Was it good? (me)
It's OK. (she)
Did it make you laugh? (me)
It's OK. (she)
You will find me crouched under the bed. I may never come out from under.

The Wednesday after the Tuesday

I'm not really keen on dogs' bums. Frankly they can keep them to themselves as most respectable animals do...well cats, but they're more an art product than a serious animal. It occurs to me that chimps are also immodest, but chimps don't live here. Mickey does.
Sunday my beloved and keen eyed resident nurse, Marguerite, noticed Mick displayed "a really big pimple on his anus." Wonderful.
Monday I marched him off to the vet. As per instructions, I sedated him first. Much good it did me. When I got back to the treatment room I found both the vet and the vet tech firmly plastered to the wall. They didn't even offer me the muzzle. "What", they asked," is wrong?"
"He's got a big protruding pimple in his butt", I answered. In dealing with medical types of any stripe, always use good plain English.
"Oh."
"Well, don't you need to look at it?"
"Hmmm..."
The vet moved carefully to Mick's backside and eyed the area from a good three feet away.
"Can you get him on the table?" he asked.
Reflexively I grabbed Mickey under his front legs and heaved. Mickey weighs forty pounds and does not cooperate with this lifting business.
"Maybe you should lift him a bit higher."
Somehow I shoved Mick onto the table.
"Oh....that looks nasty."
"How can you tell, you're not even near his back end." I huffed.
The vet moved in, looked and darted back to prop up the wall.
"If it was the big guy, or even Winnie, I'd lance it and clean it out, but it's Mickey. I'd have to put him under."
The vet makes it  clear that "putting an animal under" is dangerous and very, very expensive. He adds lots of "very"s to the expense part when it's Micky under consideration.
I left with pills for Mick, I put old linens all over the furniture, and hoped this would soon pass.
It's Wednesday.  The linens have blood spots all over them. Rand Paul got elected. I have listened to a raft of morbid comments about Mickey's big bump. Apparently the rest of my family is keen to see it burst.

Why is it always the smallest dog? Why is it always the "part terrier"? And why oh why do I live in a state that elected Rand Paul? Finally, will my back EVER stop hurting?