The Dashman is sick.
The vet believes he has Inflammatory Bowel Disease or Gastrointestinal Lymphoma (the C word). At this point, we’re not sure how we’re going to treat him. Neither is curable but the IBD is definitely the better case scenario.
I know that dogs can sense human emotion and that I should put on a brave face for him. I’m trying…but the tears won’t stop falling.
Josh went to his buddy Kev’s stag last night. We caught up on the evening’s events this morning when he got home.
Ball and chain. Check
Stripper joint. Check
Lots to drink. Check.
Assault on all senses. Check?
Seems that everyone (except Josh) smoked cigarettes. At one point, while driving to one of the clubs, Josh decided to combat the smokers with an attack of his own. His own farts.
Just one of the many reasons we love this man.
Happy Father’s Day Josh. You f’ng rock!
I’m sure there’s a special hell for mothers like me. A place where other condemned mothers just shake their fingers and roll their eyes. A place where the non-PC people go to rot. Hell, I’ll probably spend eternity with some PC mother fucker being all nice and shit to me. I’m sure it’s a horrible, terrible place.
What exactly did I do? I let my daughter play with a toy gun. And I thought it was fucking hilarious. Funnier still? I took pictures.
I’m having a difficult time showing the image here so check it out here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7598783@N05/550147589/in/photostream/
SAS got up early (6:30am) this morning. She said her throat hurt. A lot. She felt warm.
I, already dreading the upcoming workday, told her she could stay home. I set her up in front of the TV (sick-day tradition) with her favourite movie of the moment (The Dark Crystal) and let her relax. By 8:00am she was running around, and I told her that she didn’t appear sick to me.
Not 5 minutes later…tears of pain. Her knee hurts, I’m told. I place her ever so lovingly back on the couch with a heating bag. Apparently it hurts. It really hurts. She says she hurt it biking last night. I am genuinely concerned.
It’s now 10:30am. She’s goofing around again.
Me: You don’t look sick to me.
SAS: Ow! My knee.
ME: OMG! You’re faking!
SAS: Ow. Mama! Ow. It hurts.
ME: Faker, faker, faker!
SAS: (Evil grin) hehehe.
I have been scammed by my three year old. Damn.
