The lady and the mister are having a little, um, difference of opinion about the backyard. The lady loves plants and green things--okay, she will admit that she does prefer sort of untamed-looking spaces to what she calls "manicured plots." The mister loves basketball, so much so that he wants to build a basketball court in the backyard. With a big pole and hoop. Cemented into a big concrete slab. Because "the kids need to be able to practice their 3-point shots." For this to happen, a very old cherry tree, a hibiscus, and a small flowerbed that the lady planted when the girl and boy were small will need to be removed so that concrete can be poured...on top of the grass, and moss, and life that is now "backyard." And backyard is not very big to begin with--it is a city backyard after all. The lady says concrete is very hard to get rid of when you wake up and realize you now hate it; hence the term "concrete." She says maybe big flat stones? The mister says the trajectory of the ball would be affected when it landed on stone corners. Today the mister brought me into the discussion, which is why I feel compelled to weigh in. He told the lady that I would like to have a basketball court in the backyard. Honestly, I don't know what he was thinking when he said that. I am nothing if not earthy. I do not like the way my claws drag and scrape on concrete. When we walk, I veer to the grassy strips, away from the sidewalk, and when we go to the park, I never run to the basketball or tennis courts. I head to the field, the grass, the mud, in search of olfactory delight. If the mister asks for my vote, rather than trying to give me one, I will vote no concrete. A pond, however, now that's something I could get behind.

 .

Oh happy day--we have sunshine here today. The lady has promised to take me someplace fun--she made sure to clarify that it's someplace I think is fun. Because last week she took me to a not-fun place--and the week before too. But who's counting. I can smell the vet from a block away, and even though I make it clear to the lady that I do not intend on visiting the vet, she pulls me out of the car and into the clinic anyway. Where they try to bribe me with cookies before they poke me and look at my teeth. And I think to myself how can this possibly be a good thing? Last week, they poked me with something, and when I  woke up both my wrists were shaved and my teeth felt funny. And they tasted different. And for the rest of the day I felt weird. The lady wrapped a blanket around me and brought me cream cheese--oh, epiphany! Looking droopy and shivery equals cream cheese. Sorry to leave so abruptly, but suddenly I'm feeling a little peaked.