My dog, Bolshoi the Boxer, is not feeling too well.

“Kindly call the veterinarian. I am not at all having a great day. In fact, I am as sick as a dog.” says Bolshoi.

“You are a dog. You cannot be as sick as a cat.” Bolshoi is known to be a hypochondriac.

“But I am really sick. I am feeling listless and my appetite is non-existent.”

“It has been a dog’s age since you’ve really been ill. And the last time you were at the vet’s , it was because you ate my slipper.” I reply.

“Why is that you fail to dog it every time I am unwell? Do you want me to go to the dogs?” Bolshoi is petulant.

“You can’t go to the dogs. The other dogs don’t like your hangdog attitude.” I sarcastically comment.

“Can you blame me? It’s a dog’s life having you as my owner.”

“Bolshoi, every time you tell me you’re sick it turns out to be another shaggy dog story. And you’re not even an English sheepdog.” I recognise that this is going to be a long drawn-out tale.

“You’d better hurry because if it’s something serious I will not have a dog’s chance of surviving.” Bolshoi is now hyper-ventilating or doing a pretty good imitation of it.

“BB, stop dogging my footsteps. Let me see if the vet is available. If that’s what you really want.” I am fed-up.

“I don’t think I can walk to the doctor’s. You will have to carry me.”

“That’s fine. I’ll stop by the vet’s and see if he can do a house visit.”

I make my exit, muttering something about seeing a man about a dog.

Quote of the day:
I have such poor vision I can date anybody. – Garry Shandling