Mary the Doxie picked the wrong year to hitch her wagons to my engine, as they are derailing along with everything else in my life. In the 9 months I've had her the poor thing's been to the vet twice to be treated for abscesses (one occasion she had three wounds surgically removed and stitched up, the other she received four staples to close one up), once for a nasty stomach thing (although that was after she ate poo so my hands are clean of that), and this week yet another time to have an ulcerated tumor removed from her undercarriage (still awaiting the pathology on it).
But I've gotta give this little doggy credit, after some mild whimpering the day of the procedure she's back to her old self, despite all of the stitches holding together the large incision in her belly. Running, jumping, stalking Josie the pussycat, playing with Mr. Lizard (her stuffed toy) and me. Man, she's a battle axe is what she is. I can't help but respect her toughness.
I shouldn't have expected anything else from my gangsta Doxie:
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