Poor Little Bear

He left me a major odoriferous gift this morning, but it wasn't his fault.

Twice during the night LB woke me scratching on the door screen and wanting out. Since he never ever does that, I really should have listened. Instead both times I told him, "go lay down," and both times he obeyed. Then he apparently just let nature take its course. Explosively, from the evidence. I can't get mad at him, because he did try. Repeatedly. And the floor needed washing anyway.

Again, twice this morning he has demanded to go out and then refused commands to "Come," instead choosing to rush down the slope. Both times, if I hadn't gotten impatient with him I'd have saved myself the trouble of yelling because he stopped on the slope and practically bent himself in two trying to evacuate something that wasn't there to be evacuated. I've had days like that, and sympathize.

Considering what a close eye I've kept on him because of his propensity for community activism, I have a hard time believing that he ate something bad. He did have a little of my yogurt yesterday, and it's possible...

Well, anyway. Given that I still blame my inattention for Fritz's death, I've practically got LB on suicide watch now. If he's getting sick, we'll camp in the vet's office until we get a serious diagnosis and not "We'll have the blood test results sometime after the funeral."

But it's probably just something my canine vacuum-cleaner ate.