Squig is going to get his teeth cleaned this morning.  I’m nervous.  He is 93 in dog years.  But his gums are sore and a couple of teeth need to be pulled.

Bad part is that he got up at six thirty and wants breakfast--and of course, he can’t have anything to eat before surgery.  He is sitting at my feet making squeaking noises.  Telling me to get with it and get his breakfast.

Which makes me feel really bad, because he trusts me to take care of his every need.  He’s just a tiny bit spoiled.  Tiny bit.

I called my friend Kathy last night to tell her I have a half-pan left of the rolls she made me.  When I am really, really hungry for something special, I go to the freezer and get one and pop it in the micro-wave.  I love hot bread. She cooked 3 full pans of rolls for me when I went to Pryor on July fourth.  Yeast rolls are my love language.

I have to get dressed and go to the vet.  I am nervous about this.  God knows I love this dog.  He is my best friend.  We spend every moment of every day together.  He is agreeable, does what I tell him to do, and loves me.  What more could a person ask for.