Update on the innermost workings of Wilbur-besieged-by-stomach-bug, courtesy of My Mother: "Puppy went outside early this morning when it was still dark and what he produced was not seen. Since then, he has been resolutely sleeping off his week end and his disappointment in lack of tit-bits." Knowing me mum, that bit about "his week end" should be treated with caution.
6 comments:
My armour shattered, I have only the following to say:
Dawwwww, puuuuuuppppy.
Ahem. Yes. Of this, we will not speak again. Ever.
Are you giving him antibiotics? Lizzie had to have antibiotics for almost two weeks (but that was also for fighting the red cat). Last year I mastered the art of shoving pills down animals' throats with that pill popper thing. It makes me feel quite competent and like I could almost manage children.
To quote a lesser Victorian literary figure (myself) misquoting a greater Victorian literary figure (Conan Doyle): "alimentary, my dear Watson."
(Or maybe I'm misquoting myself quoting Conan Doyle? Who can be sure?)
"Wilburius"? I think you meant to write, "Vilburius", surely?
Martin: I know. I go wobbly-kneed and melty-hearted whenever I see him. He's such a luvvy.
Eyrie: no antibiotics. He doesn't seem to have gastroenteritis or anything quite so dastardly, just something his tum is doing its darnedest to expel. I think the trick with medicating beasties is to give them food immediately afterwards. The once and former Aristotle used to have his insulin injections just before dinner and breakfast. As soon as he heard the rustle of a syringe being unwrapped, he'd gallop forth with an eager look in his tail.
Tim: Yer ferny.
Anon: that'll be VILBVRIA MERETRIX to you.
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