![]() ![]() Guy sounds about as thrilled as a walrus with hemorrhoids. So I drag out my Day-timer, look up the precinct business card Nick gave me, and dial. However, I’ve run out of options, other than either buying T-bones for this mutt or watching him waste away. There might be a solution, but it’s one I’d hoped to avoid. To date, I have tried out no less than a dozen different brands of dog food-dry, canned, and pouched-and all I’ve gotten for my efforts is a sniff, a pathetic whimper and The Doleful Expression. I thought dogs had appallingly indiscriminating palates, joyfully scarfing down anything even remotely resembling food. Which might have something to do with the fact that he hates everything I’ve tried to feed him, with the not surprising exception of steak and chicken. At the moment, he’s not looking any too cheerful. ![]() Which I’m guessing is kind of how my furry companion is feeling. So basically, my life is still a mess, but I’m plugging along, alternating between abject misery and irritatingly cheerful optimism. ![]()
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