My dog, Guinness, is a senior. I called the vet yesterday to make an annual appointment for my little boy, and it turns out that now that he is seven…he is considered a senior. And he’s not so little anymore. He’s actually really fat. A fatty Mcfattican, and he’s going to have a heart attack and die like his mother. He must get his high cholesterol from me. dammit. It doesn’t help that the most energy he exerts in a day is to hop onto the ottamon to stare at whomever is sitting in the chair. He doesn’t even “hop up” anymore. He has to back up to get a running start, and then he barely makes it. I wonder if you can get gastric bypass surgery for dogs?

In other news, I am looking to move. I know I mentioned in my last couple posts that I’m looking into buying a house, but I think that for now, I need to focus on just getting out of a 10 mile radius of Neighbor Bob. I just don’t see the humor in him anymore. It’s kind of sad really. I mean he has been my entertainment for almost a year now, but all good things come to an end. And I don’t think he is a good thing anymore. In fact, I’m starting to dislike everything about the whole bunch of those crazies that live downstairs. So I’m on a new home search…wish me luck.

Last night my mom helped me go through my closet to purge. Since I’m getting serious about this whole moving thing, I think it is necessary to get rid of the superfluous. Chunk thought it would be funny to try on some tiny little summer tube tops that “showcase” a well-defined abdomen. It was very funny, but not very attractive. I only kept them because Chunk says he’ll wear them, and I was only keeping items that will get worn. I told him he’s not allowed to leave the house wearing them. We’re still discussing this.

And then, in honor of Guinness and Chunk…I had an iced sugar cookie for breakfast.

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