Smarter than Congress.

“What, me worry?”

So here’s a fun story. My effing hunting dog will eat pretty much anything. So what is he eating lately? The decomposing chunks of grass from the deck of my lawn tractor. The grass grows fast and moist this time of year, so there’s a lot of fodder available. He went outside a couple of days ago and puked his guts out. I had to hose down the patio.

What did he do Thursday, when we went to get a bag of dog food? He puked his guts out in his crate. I felt bad for him because he had to spend 20-30 minutes stuffed up against one end of his crate.

Did I mention that the two things that gave me the most problems during my career were puke and shit? Bleed on me all you want, but that stuff is kryptonite. We got home and I let the dogs out. There was dog puke and puke juice all over the back of the Tahoe. God bless WeatherTec. I started the “harrup, harrup” thing when I smelled it. I asked my wife to take the pad out of his crate, so that I could take everything else out and hose it down. I then found myself running through the house, trying to get to the bathroom before I had another mess to clean up.

After depositing a piece of quality New York style pie in the oblong repository, I made my way back to the driveway. The pad was still in the crate. I was able to direct from a distance, tossing out a couple of unproductive, “harrup, harrups” in the process. Everything got hosed off and laid out in the sun.

But wait! It gets better. Fast forward to Friday morning. He wouldn’t eat breakfast, couldn’t get comfortable and was groaning. Hunting dogs don’t show distress unless something is seriously going on. A quick call and off to the vet we go. Yay! He’s got a rock stuck in his intestines! Surgery time! He’s puked up rocks before. He’ll grab one from the garden and run around the yard playing catch with himself and his new buddy, the rock. Every so often, it goes straight down the throat. Usually, there’s a 4am, “harrup, harrup” coming from the hallway, followed by a clunk as the rock hits the floor. Not this time. It was small enough that it went the other direction.

Fortunately, the rock had moved down far enough that the vet was able to work it down the colon towards the back end. He pooped it out this morning. He has a zipper from exploratory surgery, but they didn’t have to cut into the intestines. I call that a win. And now he’s bashing us in the back of our legs with the cone of shame after paying $2,000 for the privilege.

Yeah, links.

Tranny snakes.

Srsly, what could possibly go wrong?

Lou Reed sighting.

Totally not a shithole.

“Drought in California is the new normal.”

No, not really.