Bess and Pearl

You can follow the progression of the season by the burrs in your socks and pants cuffs.  We've gone through the whirligigs and burr clover, the bracken fern has thrown off its thousands of tiny spears, and now foxtails are the flavor of the day.  The dreaded star thistle is looming on the horizon.  Just as I was ready to leave with Pearl for the vet's yesterday, Bessie Anne took off like a bat down into the woods on the scent of the coyote.  I had to wait until she came back, fearing that she might actually meet up with the Wild Thing and I might need to take her to see Dr. Ric, too.  Bess finally came panting back up the hill, not injured in any way, but covered with the tiny seeds we call the Velcro burrs.  Late for Pearl's appointment, I had to leave her all stuck together in one mass until we got home.  I wish I could say she learned her lesson. 

Pearl has Stockholm Syndrome.  She has taken to sleeping in the crate, and no longer tries to escape the bathroom.  I am her new best friend.  Unfortunately, she popped a stitch and had to have a couple more put in by Dr. Ric, but the drain has been removed.  It does mean, however, that she has another six days in the conehead.  Poor Pitiful Pearl.