Sing the following to the tune of the original Spider Man theme song:
Spider poo, spider poo,
always cleaning up spider poo,
Round and brown, nasty blotch,
emanates from a spider's crotch,
what's in the spider poo, man,
digested bugs and goo, man,
clean up the spider POOOOOOOO!
Sorry I have no photos of the poo. I always think, "Duh. Shoulda grabbed the camera," after I clean it off the table and chairs on the lanai. As you can see from this photo, Abby is unconcerned with spider poo.
It's been a big week at the vet. Monday, the babies all got snipped. You'd never know it. The next day, they were running around like maniacs, like it never happened. Even Winnie. She's got a tiny incision on her shaved tummy. Her other stitches are "hidden" as the vet says, and will dissolve. I do keep an eye on it to make sure she keeps it dry and doesn't start licking it incessantly. So far, all is well.
And speaking of poo, these kitties do a lot of it. Probably because they also do a lot of eating. I spend more time than I expected scooping litter boxes. They play outside, then come inside to poo. Am I doing something wrong?
Wednesday was Doc's turn to visit the vet. I sedated him, then tucked him into a crate in the back of the SUV. Oddly, the sedative wasn't working very well. He was agitated. Then came the smell. Oh, Doctor Dog! I guess when you really gotta go, no amount of tranquilizer is going to calm that urge. He did his best to hold it in, but a few turds snuck out and did their job to stink up the vehicle. The moment I opened the crate and walked him down the ramp, he lost it all, right there in the parking lot at the vet. It made taking a stool sample easy. I sent the tech to the pile outside. "Right there," I pointed out the window. Beats sticking a probe up the poor poochie's whatzit. Had to borrow some paper towels and air freshener from them before we left for home. Other than that humiliation, all's well with our boy, though he has a few lumps to keep an eye on. Fatty lipomas. Harmless. Oh, and he's still a neurotic basket case. But we love him. He's 10 years old now and 83 lbs, so no spring chicken and no petite flower, but healthy. Today, it's Hoppsy's turn. We're going to get a firm diagnosis on what I think is arthritis and to have the vet check out a cyst or bump of some kind that's recently sprouted on her eyelid. Hopps is 13.
It's time for financial aid. With the peanuts I make at the winery and a household income that's down by 25%, the three grand per semester is taking a toll. Not macadamia nuts, mind you, but peanuts. That's what I make. Sadly, the University of Alaska won't accept nuts in any form as payment.
It's shaping up to be a beautiful day, perfect for sitting outside with the laptop and letting the creative juices flow. The air's been bad lately, so the reprieve yesterday and today from choking sulfur dioxide is welcome. I just heard the neighbor's cow moo. That's my cue to skeedaddle.
A hui hou. Aloha!