It must happen innumerable times that go unnoticed. It isn't until you rip a fingernail down into the quick that it becomes apparent just how many times a day you bang your fingers on something. It seems I can't do anything without stubbing the injured finger. In my mind's eye, that finger balloons like a cartoon hand, accompanied by the throbbing beat of a big bass drum. Outwardly, like a paper cut, it's not an injury that will get much sympathy, but it hurts like the very devil and I'll be so glad when that little armor plate grows out again.
I received a notice from the vet that Bessie Anne is due for her annual checkup and inoculations. This time they've also asked for a stool sample. Now that presents a problem. Bess is a private sort of girl and has ten acres in which to do her business unseen. Not that there aren't plenty of "land mines" laying about, it's that they aren't identifiable as hers. Coyotes using the driveway as a nighttime freeway frequently drop a calling card, and how do I know if a particular lump might not be that of another dog passing through? It's not as if Bessie can produce on request. Dogs can and will piddle anywhere and frequently, but that brings to mind a friend from years back who was told to obtain a midstream urine catch from her German shepherd. They'd go out into the back yard, the dog would hike his leg, she would thrust a cup underneath, that would startle the dog and he'd drop his leg and the whole idea. He got paranoid about going potty and was in danger of urinary retention. She said she'd never felt so much like a pervert. I'll have to ask the vet if this is a critically necessary test for Bess. We may have to (pardon the pun) pass.