Wednesday with Poppy

being a shortened version of this post from July

---

with Carol in July

with me, June campout in Big Sur

17 July 2019

I do and I don’t want to forget this day. The past several months, Poppy has been clingy, maybe feeling uncomfortable because of her kidney disease. Last week I was wishing she could pee normally. But as they say, “Be careful what you wish for,” because yesterday she let loose with a puddle on the hardwood floor.

Before walking her, I surveyed the back yard. There on the path was a normal-looking #2. I never thought I’d be so happy to see one of these; her elimination had been out of whack since the vet put her on a low-protein diet. I found her lead and a pet refuse bag, and invited her out. She bounded over with almost her former intensity, and exploded out the gate once I opened it. She soon ran out of gas, but we walked fully 20 minutes.

Carol would be out most of the day; I worked from home so Poppy wouldn’t be alone. The past few days I prepared her meals from leftovers. Poppy was refusing the weird stuff from the vet, and didn’t even want her old kibble. On this morning I put a little water and rice on the stove, and some salmon, under her close supervision. After it simmered a few minutes, I stirred in a fiber capsule, let it cool for a bit, and walked it to her crate. “Sit!” I commanded. She promptly obeyed. Placing her bowl on the floor, I said, “OK,” and she fell to.

In a couple of minutes she found me and gave me her “More?” look. I scooped a handful of her formerly-favorite kibble into her bowl. She ate most of that, and then stopped. “Well,” I thought, “She must be feeling better.”

A while later, it was time to go to the bank. “Want to go for a ride?” I called.

She jumped off the couch and looked at me expectantly. I gathered my things and she followed me to the garage. The van is too high for her to get into by herself, so I lifted her onto my seat. She jumped to the passenger side. I lowered her window, belted myself in, and off we went. About half-way through town, she began looking toward my window. “Want to come over?” I asked.

At the next traffic signal, I scooted back a few inches, and she took a tentative step. I lifted her onto my lap, and as the light turned green, she put her paws onto the door. A few blocks later, she wanted to go back; I gave her a one-handed boost to the passenger seat.

I left both front windows open a few inches. “I’ll be back in a flash,” I told her, and went into the bank.

I returned to find her in the driver’s seat. “Excuse me,” I said as I opened the door. She returned to the passenger seat and we went for her last ride back to the house. I gave her a half-tablet of the antiemetic, to help her feel more comfortable in her final hours.

I fed her for the last time. Well, almost the last: she came to me in the kitchen with her “Carrot?” look. I handed her one, which she cheerfully chomped. (She did that Monday, too, but immediately vomited the whole thing. This time everything stayed down.)

Carol came home to take Poppy to the vet. I just wanted to be somewhere else, so I gathered a few things and went to the office. Poppy followed me outside. Maybe she suspected something was up, because when I leave I always say, “Be a good girl”; this time I knelt down and stroked her fur. “I’m sorry, Poppy,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I’m sure she could tell I was really broken up about something.

At work it was “Employee Appreciation Week” and there was an ice cream social. But I didn’t want ice cream and didn’t feel social, so I skipped it. I did something vaguely productive and went home. As I entered the house there was no jingle of Poppy’s tags on her collar, no little footsteps.

Poppy's Last Day

I woke at about six on Poppy's last morning. She watched me leave the bedroom and return with her last thyro-tab (0.1), covered with cream cheese. She took it from my hand, and I went out to the den to open the patio door. A few minutes later she padded out.

Before taking her for a last walk, I surveyed the back yard. There on the path was a normal-looking #2. I never thought I'd be so happy to see one of these, because her elimination had been out of whack since the vet put her on the protein-restricted diet. Anyway, I pulled out her lead and a pet refuse bag, and invited her out. She bounded over with almost her former intensity, and exploded out the gate once I opened it. She soon ran out of gas, although we walked fully 20 minutes, about 1600 yards.

I do and I don't want to forget this day. The past several months, Poppy has been clingy. I think she's been feeling uncomfortable because of her kidney disease. Last week I was wishing that Poppy could pee normally. But as they say, "Be careful what you wish for," because yesterday she let loose with a puddle on the hardwood floor.

Carol would be out most of the day; I worked from home so Poppy wouldn't be alone in the house. The past few days I prepared her meals from leftovers. Poppy was refusing all the low-protein stuff we got from the vet, and didn't even want her old kibble. On this morning I put a little water and rice on the stove, and some salmon, with her close supervision. After it simmered a few minutes, I stirred in a fiber capsule, let it cool for a bit, and walked it to her crate. "Sit!" I commanded. She promptly obeyed. Placing her bowl on the floor, I said, "OK" and she fell to.

In a couple of minutes she found me and gave me her "More?" look. I scooped a handful of her formerly-favorite kibble into her bowl. She ate most of that, and then stopped. "Well," I thought, "She must be feeling better."

A while later, it was time to go to the bank. "Want to go for a ride?" I called.

She jumped off the couch and looked at me expectantly. I gathered my things and she followed me to the garage. The van is too high for her to get into by herself, so I lifted her onto my seat. She jumped to the passenger side as I climbed in. I lowered her window, belted myself in, and off we went. About half-way through town, she began looking toward my window. "Want to come over?" I asked.

At the next traffic signal, I scooted back a few inches, and she took a tentative step. I lifted her onto my lap, and she put her paws onto the door as the light turned green. A few blocks later, she wanted to go back; I gave her a one-handed boost to the passenger seat. She sat the rest of the way. My eyes were mostly dry on the drive.

I left both front windows open a few inches as I went into the bank. "I'll be back in a flash," I told her.

A few minutes later, I returned to find her in the driver's seat. "Excuse me," I said as I opened the door. She returned to the passenger seat and we went for her last ride back to the house. I gave her the last half-tablet of the antiemetic, to help her feel more comfortable in her final hours.

I worked another hour or so at my desk, then it was time for lunch. I heated some rice in the microwave and added a little leftover chicken juice. A few more flakes of salmon, some bits of chicken this time, and another fiber capsule went in, and it was lunch time. The same sitting ritual followed.

I teared up a little as I fed her for the last time. Well, almost the last: she came to me in the kitchen with her "Carrot?" look. I handed her one, which she cheerfully chomped. (She did that Monday, too, but immediately vomited the whole thing. This time everything stayed down.)

Carol came home to take Poppy to the vet for the last time. I just wanted to be somewhere else, so I gathered a few things and went to the office. Was I wimping out? Maybe. Poppy followed me outside. Maybe she suspected something was up, because when I leave I always say, "Be a good girl"; this time I knelt down and stroked her fur. "I'm sorry, Poppy," I said. "I'm so sorry." I'm sure she could tell I was really broken up about something.

I was there just a couple of hours. It was "Employee Appreciation Week" and there was an ice cream social. But I didn't want ice cream and didn't feel social, so I skipped it. I did something vaguely productive and went home. There was no jingle of Poppy's tags on her collar, no little footsteps as I entered the house.

The best possible today

On a recent walk, as on many recent walks, Popsie—our beloved “toy” poodle mix—would squat a little, and a pool would grow larger and larger until it hit one or more of her feet. I imagined those feet jumping onto our laps, and then tried not to.

Little did I know that I would soon be wishing for her to do that again. Our Popsie’s kidneys are failing, and she only ever leaves a few drops anywhere. She hardly drinks anything, and eats even less, so we will likely soon be saying good-bye.

She has lost her appetite; put differently, she’s gotten a lot pickier. The new diet (for kidney care) is only part of the reason. I wish she would drink more, because that would dilute the things her kidneys are trying to get rid of, and make her feel better. But she doesn’t know that, and we can’t explain that “you won’t like it, but you really have to drink two quarts of water today.”—or in her case I guess it would be “a full cup of water.”

The doctor came over to administer subcutaneous fluids and draw some blood to see how things are going. But then what?

I can see a few different directions this could go. One would be to aim for the Vulcan slogan, Live long and prosper. In this scenario, we’d try to dress up the kidney-health diet, learn how to administer sub-q fluids (as the doctor calls them), and so on. We would likely witness a long, slow decline, and at some point would decide for her to end it. To be fair, in this plan we’d be deciding on her behalf to start it.

Another possibility would be my slacker paraphrase of a hospice-esque priority, viz., to choose the best possible today, regardless how many possible tomorrows (of unknown quality) we might forgo. A motto for this scenario might be, Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die. (That’s in the Bible by the way.)

A friend told me about his mother-in-law, who moved in with him and his wife in her later years. As it happened, she was nowhere near her last year, but nobody knew that at the time. He told me that they encouraged her to eat “healthy” foods until she got to be 90, but after that, she went the Epicurean route. She went to restaurants and ordered mounds of tasty deep-fried stuff. Of course she couldn’t finish it there, so she brought it home and ate more of that TDFS until it was time to go back and get more! Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die! Well, that last part came maybe nine years later. Yep, she only made it to 99.

In case you don’t see my tongue nearly puncturing my cheek, I think they made terrific decisions in that case. I suppose they may wonder from time to time if they should have started in Mom’s 85^th year instead…

From Atul Gawande’s masterpiece Being Mortal I learned that for certain kinds of cancer, you live longer and more comfortably by going for palliative care than you by opting for one medical intervention after another. By the way, under the palliative option, you also don’t wipe out your grandchildren’s inheritance.

Lest you think me a reckless Epicurean, a couple of thoughts. In my single years (back when dinosaurs roamed the earth), I took one of those quizzes you sometimes see in the paper. According to my answers, I was a guy who “lives life to the hilt and seldom takes stock of where he is going,” which my housemates thought was hilarious. Apparently I liked to think of myself that way, but the reality was, as one put it, “I can’t think of anyone less like that than you are.”

I think she was right, actually: we saved for the kids’ college education; we have enough in various accounts that I can retire any time we’re ready; I have life insurance beyond the employer-supplied policy in case something happens to me before we’re ready; etc.

Another thought, which perhaps is a mere continuation of that one, is that I do somewhat believe in taking care of oneself. I read a few months ago that the ability to run a nine-minute mile is associated with better outcomes, and consequently decided to get on the treadmill a few times a week. I got down to a 9:00 mile and have since slacked off to running a mile at 6.4mph. I do this 2–3 times a week, and I’ve gotta say, “epicurean” would not be the word.

If a guy goes to the doctor, and the doc says to lose weight and eat less fast food, and he ignores that advice and dies 15–20 years before he should, I think that’s tragic because the world (and especially his family) is poorer by 15–20 years’ worth of contributions he likely would’ve made.

Popsie is some ninety years old, according to a “poodle years” conversion chart I found today. The Humane Society thought she was somewhere between six and nine when she came home with us in 2009 (yes, about ten years ago) so she’s probably 16–19, a ripe old age. She’s entitled to her version of TDFS, and this morning I made her some fried rice. It had a little (just a little, in case Dr. Lowery reads this) chicken, and some carrots, and some of the juice that was in the leftover container.

For the best possible today.

Toward the end of her life, my own mother said she wanted no more surgeries. No more tests. By this time the doctors knew she had some kind of cancer in her pancreas—which is probably what killed her appetite. So she was done.

When the doctor came by yesterday, I saw Popsie’s distress around needles. She doesn’t want any more needles and in fact doesn’t even want to go to the vet’s office.

---

But of course it’s not quite that simple. In the middle of writing the above, the doc called and talked about the level of ionized calcium in the blood sample, and appetite stimulants (quite a common treatment for kidney disease in dogs). And I began to think, “Well, if her appetite picks up and she feels better and enjoys walking and can pee a puddle like she used to…” but then I remembered, she’s a 90-year-old lady, and she doesn’t want any more needles.

But if a couple pokes this week means she could enjoy another six months, would it be worth it?

But she’s a 90-year-old lady!

But…

Rejoice with me!

The petite woman was about to get into her car, but she was smiling and looking at me as I walked my little dog down her street. "Good morning," I said.

"Good morning!" she replied. "I was so happy…" she began, and I wondered where this was going. "… because my dog ran away, but he came back just now. I was getting ready to go to work, and there he was!" She wiggled a bit to show me how he'd greeted her.

"That's wonderful!" I said. I knew what it felt like to lose track of a pet, or a child, and to find them again.

She went on to tell me about how the dog has run away in the past, but the tag on his collar has her phone number—this time, though, she had cut his hair and left his collar off. She spoke of her futile visit to the Humane Society, and of her other dog's despondency—he had missed his buddy. "But then there he was!" she said. She could not contain her joy.

"Congratulations!" I said. "That's a great thing." We said good-bye, and I thought of a story Jesus told nearly two thousand years ago.

⁴“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? ⁵And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ⁶‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ ⁷I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

Luke 15:4-7

The story has two points: one is that there is rejoicing in heaven when someone repents (no, really!). Our experience of joy on earth is both an echo of our Creator's joy and a hint of future joys in heaven, even as the love I feel toward my children points to the love my heavenly father feels toward me. As Merton writes,

All nature is meant to make us think of paradise. Woods, fields, valleys, hills, the rivers and the sea, the clouds traveling across the sky, light and darkness, sun and stars, remind us that the world was created as a paradise … Heaven is even now mirrored in created things.

No Man Is an Island 6.15 (p. 115)

Heaven is indeed mirrored in created things—and not just in things we can see, but also in love and joy.

The parable has a barb: The Pharisees and teachers of the law did not rejoice when "tax collectors and sinners" were listening to Jesus and presumably repenting; hence they were no friends of heaven.

The second point, and probably the reason Jesus told the parable, is this: Friends and neighbors rejoice together. That is, if someone is happy because a lost sheep or coin (or dog) is found, friends and neighbors are the ones who rejoice with them. That is, both here and in the parable of the lost coin (Luke 15:8-10), the finder calls friends and neighbors together to celebrate.

I had a chance that morning to be a neighbor to this woman, if not a friend, by rejoicing with her. Come to think of it, I'm glad we had a chance to talk, because it reminded me of the Great Shepherd's joy, which I can share in, and of the many good gifts he gives me daily.

Miscalculated

This morning, the leftover hamburger (I'd sautéed it with onions the other day) looked forlornly at me from its container in the ’fridge. I said to the lovely Carol, "If I scrambled some eggs with this, would you have some?"

She would, so I pulled out a skillet, tossed the burger in with some olive oil, and set the burner on medium heat. I beat three eggs and stirred the burger around a bit more. When it looked ready, I added the eggs and in a minute or two we had a breakfast scramble.

I put two plates on the stove and shoveled the egg/burger mix onto them. There was a bit too much -- two eggs probably would have been enough, I thought.

Then it hit me: our dog was no longer here to share this with us.

I know we should think about the good times we had with him, rather than focus only on the grief of missing him. But sometimes we just do.

15 hours later

The lovely Carol just heard a high-pitched whistling noise outside. "It reminds me of Duke's whine," she said.

I wonder how long it will be 'til it won't hurt when we remember him?

Guess Who's Coming to Visit

I heard a knock and a whimpering sound. The knocking was from our neighbor Sudeep, and the whimpering from her 12-year-old shepherd mix, Buddy.

"He always makes that noise when he thinks he's going to see a friend," she explained. I lowered my head toward Buddy in greeting, and he gave me a kiss.

Sudeep dropped the leash and Buddy started wandering around, sniffing.

"He's not here any more, Buddy," I said. Duke has been gone over six weeks now, but I still miss him terribly sometimes.

Buddy padded over to the kitchen, then into the den. He followed Carol onto the patio but soon returned.

It's something like a half-mile from Sudeep's and Dave's house over to ours, and Buddy isn't a puppy any more, so I stepped outside to find Duke's old water bowl, the white one with the fake paw-print carved in the bottom. Buddy followed me with some interest. I gave it a rinse, filled it a little over half-way, and set it down in front of the stove. By this time, Buddy had lost interest, so I called him over, making a splashing sound to entice him.

Performing that simple act of service nearly brought tears to my eyes, because I hadn't done it in, well, six weeks, and the one for whom I did it was no longer here to appreciate it.

Thinking back on it, I suppose we could have done more for Duke, but it would have been expensive and miserable and wouldn't have extended his life more than a few weeks.

For some reason that reminded me of a conversation with my father-in-law some years back. I don't remember exactly what it was about, but I remember feeling exasperated with him. I wanted to yell at him: "If you were dying and needed an operation or something, don't you think I'd give you $30,000 to save your life? What the hell is the matter with you anyway?"

When I described this to Carol, she said, "He probably doesn't think you would."

I was amazed and astonished.

Sometimes I think my priorities are messed up because I miss the dog a lot more than I miss my father-in-law. But whereas I would have given my father-in-law $30,000 if needed (that was in 1990 dollars too), I wasn't willing to shell out $10,000 for the dog in 2007. So maybe they're not so messed up after all.

In that way perhaps I'm not unlike Thomas, the so-called doubter. Everybody remembers Thomas as the guy who doubted. But look at this:

Then Thomas (called Didymus) said to the rest of the disciples, "Let us also go, that we may die with him."

John 11:16

Whether a man says "I believe" or "I don't believe" or "I will not believe unless", you can find out what he really thinks by watching where his feet go. Yes, Thomas had his moments of doubt -- who among us hasn't? -- but he followed Jesus to Bethany, and then to Jerusalem. His feet, and his wallet, were in the right place, even if he did make that famous comment about not believing unless he saw this and that.

Yep, Thomas is one of my heroes.

Meanwhile, Buddy was disappointed at not finding his friend Duke.

"I wish he were here too, Buddy," I told him. It was so sad, Buddy not knowing where his friend was (though he could smell him everywhere) and us not being able to communicate to him that his old playmate was gone forever.

What would be good news to Buddy? To Sudeep? How about to me?

I think one thing that would be welcome is the knowledge that the love and mutual enjoyment that we shared together will be ours again in the world to come.

The reprieve is over

I wrote the other day about my dog's problems. After I wrote that, my wife and children took the dog to one of his favorite places for a walk. He lifted his leg on a plant and... watered it! Oh joy!

They called the vet and canceled his euthanasia appointment for that afternoon. He greeted me with joy Thursday evening. Friday passed uneventfully. He took his pills. I did not see him urinate but he did not seem uncomfortable. Saturday he wasn't feeling very well. I watched him carefully and I did not see him pee at all -- all he could do was strain.

He took his medication but needed a lot of encouragement. I said something about how I didn't want to do the catheterization again, and as soon as he heard the "C" word, he went and hid in the corner. We could hardly get him to eat anything.

This morning, I took him out the gate and he headed left; we usually go to the right, but seeing as this was his last walk, I let him go where he wanted. We walked a few blocks and then turned around. I kept hoping and praying that he could manage to pee on something -- or on nothing even -- so he could live a few more days without being so miserable. But it was not to be.

Our schedules this morning were kinda disparate -- the girls were sleeping when Carol and I left for a meeting; they were gone by the time we got back. I called the veterinary office and wept as I told the receptionist about Duke's downhill slide. She asked if I wanted to come right away and I said yes.

I asked Duke if he wanted to go for a ride. He did, but he wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as he usually is -- was. I took him to the vet's office, turning on "Car Talk" for a while so I could stop crying long enough to see where I was going. I parked the car and took Duke over to where some plants were. I almost went over to the "No Dogs Allowed" area, thinking maybe the vibes over by the tomato plants might somehow stimulate him to pee on them. But I had actually given up -- or resigned myself.

They were, of course, expecting us. The receptionist left us in room#1 and gave me a Kleenex box. A tech came in, and she talked with me to make sure this was what I wanted to do. She explained how this all worked, and I signed the form. The doctor came in -- she had seen Duke last Sunday -- and I held Duke's head in my lap. "You won't feel uncomfortable any more," I told him, feeling like I was betraying him even as I said it. The doctor gave him the required drugs and in a few seconds his breathing, and his heart, stopped.

I cried like a baby -- no I didn't. A baby has no concept of losing a companion of nearly eight years, one who grew up with his children -- a faithful if quirky guardian of his house and family. A baby doesn't make the decision to end the life of a friend like that, and a baby cannot anticipate the grief and pain of the days ahead.

A baby does not know that dreams will come in the nights ahead, dreams of the departed friend that end -- and then the awful realization that the friend really has not come back, that he is gone forever.

No, I didn't cry like a baby.

And that's not how I'm crying now.

Bad day

My dog has been unable to pee for some days now. There was a growth... which turns out to have been caused by prostate cancer. They suspected it last week, and we got the definitive diagnosis yesterday afternoon. This sort of thing is apparently fairly common in large dogs.

They put a urinary catheter in him Sunday. After a few times, they gave us supplies to do it at home. That did not work, so yesterday they stuck one in permanently, sutured it to him, and put one of those cone/bonnet things around his neck. The vets said that they shouldn't put another catheter into him; if he couldn't pee naturally by Friday, that would be the end.

I came home and saw him. He looked so pitiful and unhappy. "I wish he didn't have cancer," I tried to say, but couldn't get it out without weeping. I can't even type it now without tearing up.

Well, we drained his bladder last night -- he was very uncomfortable. And I couldn't get the "plug" back in, so he dripped all night.

This morning, he somehow managed to circumvent the bonnet thing. The catheter was lying on the floor. I scolded him mildly and took the bonnet thing off him. Then I took him for a walk. He tried to mark a few trees, but nothing was forthcoming. He enjoyed it anyway.

Unless something extraordinary happens, the vet will euthanize him this afternoon.

"Silly dog," I said. "You shouldn't have pulled that catheter out. It was the last one."

Sorry, I just had to wipe my face again.

Well, he enjoyed his walk. He didn't have to wear the bonnet. That foreign object - the urinary catheter is out. The sun is shining and the sky is blue.

For him, it is a good day to die. For us, it will never be a good day to lose him.

Stop me before I P on your stuff again! --Duke

It was about 4:00. AM. The sound of dog-toenails was making me nervous. Apparently he didn't get locked up. I came out to the dining-room.

A rustling noise from the den. "Hey!" I called. "What are you doing there?!" Duke slunk back into the kitchen and headed toward the side-door. I let him out to the yard, then entered the den to survey the damage. There was a smell.

Fortunately it was only #1. Expensive art books were on the floor -- fortunately just a few droplets were on them. After I wiped them off, I couldn't smell anything on the books. Thank God!

There is still some dog-output on some other stuff, but the art books are OK. I let him back in and locked him in his cage.

I was sorely vexed. I made a sign for the girls to see this morning: "Duke MUST be locked up at night, ESPECIALLY when there is art (or books) on the floor!" And I put a frowny-face with tears of vexation (though you couldn't tell what kind of tears they were in the drawing), and wrote "Dad 4:05am" on it.

A good day, but not complete

What's not complete around here is... that the lovely Carol is out of town at a Women's retreat.

Well, we had waffles for breakfast this morning. On the last batch, Sheri stirred a pile of chocolate chips into the batter. These were not evenly distributed amongst the four quarters of the waffle iron, so some chocolate waffles were, ah, more equal than others.

Some vacuuming was done. I replaced the filters in the spa, finished filling it, and got it going. The girls enjoyed looking at a new time-sink called "facebook".

Sheri finished up her introductory essay, we had lunch, and then we were off to portfolio day at Academy of Arts University in San Francisco. We got there before her appointment because we thought she might talk with representatives of some other schools, but they weren't there today. So with about 90 minutes before her appointment, we parked the car and went to the SF Museum of Modern Art, a short walk away. There we saw the work of Anselm Kiefer - some enormous pieces. Remarkable.

The fellow reviewing her portfolio was very complimentary of her work, making suggestions on only one of her pieces. He gave us some good tips on assembling her portfolio for the Real Thing.

We followed some of this advice immediately by stopping at Utrecht (the art store), where she bought a portfolio display binder as well as a bunch of canvas boards and such.

I wondered if she wanted to go back to SFMoMA but she was happy to head home. We were talking about dinner, and I suggested picking up some veggies and some shrimp and making... "a stir fry?" she asked. She sounded pretty happy about that. We stopped at Safeway and bought some baby bok choy, a yellow (or orange?) bell pepper, a green pepper, some shrimp (from China), some snacks, and a chocolate milk for Sheri.

We got home and Jenny was already out at morp. Morp is "prom" spelled backwards, and it means "ice skating in prom clothes then having a fancy dinner afterwards". The fancy dinner happened to be at the golden arches, and I guess the only fancy thing about it was the diners' clothes.

I made dinner. All ate and were satisfied. Then, maybe around seven, Jenny came in the front door. Duke was too excited about licking our dinner dishes to notice. When she called out "I'm home!" he ran toward the patio door, breaking the law as usual, but nobody was there! Jenny told him where she was, so he made the necessary "corrections" and greeted her with his usual sloppy kiss.

We watched "Dave," borrowed from my niece. A feel-good movie, a comedy/romance. A little sappy. Some of them live happily ever after. I think the president's doctor would be very confused and very embarrassed at the end, though.

Well, with the lovely Carol gone, I hate going to bed, which is why I'm not there yet. I will be soon, though.