Blood tests

Poor G. has been called back to the vet. He was traumatized by his visit of two weeks ago, which happened to coincide with that of a dog who had tangled with a porcupine. Sadly for the beautiful husky, she had to be sedated before the vet could begin plucking out all seventy (!!) quills. Sadly for G., the vet ordered the sedation only after tugging on a few of the quills, sending the dog into a fit of tortured shrieks.

I reached into G's carrier to offer comforting pats, and was startled when I couldn't find him there. That’s because a terrified G. had activated his feline super powers, and shrunk himself down to the size of a river stone.

He submitted meekly to the examination, but his blood sample was “diluted.” “Possibly, it was the stress,” said the vet’s assistant on the phone. And so back he goes, tomorrow, to offer up another vial of blood.

On Friday, I’ll be giving blood myself. And that should determine for sure whether my new B-cups are indeed a sign of baby aboard or just a belated gift from the boob fairy.