It is Friday. I spent five days knitting on the Who scarf; knitting like I was getting paid (which, sort of, I am--but not really) and I'm. Still. Not. Done.
Granted, I'm a whole heck of a lot closer to the end than I was last Friday, but sheesh. It's not like I've been sitting on my hands or anything. I've darn near got Knitter's Elbow from all the knitting, but I've still got around 150-200 rows to go. In fingering weight yarn. Well, once I finish dinner here and take my shoes off, I'm going to just sit here, Ghost Hunters LIVE! on telly, and knit (again) like it's my job.
I will finish this sumbich. I will. And then I'll have a beer or two or four and relax for a day before casting on for something that pre-Who scarf would have terrified me, but at which I will now laugh at with disdain, Ha-hah! You cannot intimidate me, you paltry lace project! I have mastered the million miles of yarn Doctor Who Scarf and now nothing knitterly can me affright!
In other news, Dog again has caused concerns over his health. Without going into details, I will note that A) if I didn't already know he has no prostate, I would be concerned about its health, B) I was worried about his kidneys and C) it's actually probably related to his salt intake.
Anyway, I took him to see Dr. Vet on Monday (along with Chat Noir, sibling to Chat Stripey, who is my avatar there). She agrees, he's the healthiest looking dog with health problems. Excellent coat, lovely teeth (no tartar), perky, healthy and then some appetite.... We did the geriatric blood screenings and found that, aside from an elevated potassium level (moderately elevated; not "ohmygod, get him in here for fluids stat!" kind of elevated), he's actually in pretty good trim for a dog of his age and experience. Which means his thyroid is a bit low (which we will address once we figure out the potassium thing), and some of his other measures are a tick or two wonky, but nothing worth getting our knickers in a twist over. He has an infection somewhere (which we've got him on antibiotics for), although it doesn't seem to be causing him discomfort or unhappiness. In other words, he's a medical mystery, but a pretty darn healthy and perky mystery, so we'll just have to wait and see what presents next. In the immortal words of Inigo Montoya, I hate waiting.
He has been getting in touch with his inner wild dog by going outside and laying on the patio. Either it's too warm in the house for him (which is possible; Mater Gloriosa and I both tend to take chill so we keep it...toastier than someone with a double coat might enjoy) or he really is having some sort of midlife crisis and, barring a Porshe which can be steered without opposable thumbs, playing Wild Dog is the only way he can feel better about himself.
I should be glad it doesn't involve a young girlfriend, I suppose.
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