The Heartworming Song of Spring

It got up to 50 degrees again today. The snow is melting for the first time since winter weather kicked in on December 1. Up in the blue sky, the geese are flying north under fluffy white clouds and a bright cheery sun. The sound of birdsong is everywhere.

And then I look down at the swamp of brown water I'm standing in. Soggy, mushy pale turds float serenely in cloudy brown puddles dotting the packed ice. The dog park has become a giant soup bowl. Or a toilet.

Someone put up a WTF DOGSHIT sign to alert the visitors that they suck ass and are fucking up the water table by leaving their pets' filth to drain into the Cannon river (which is twenty feet downhill from the park). Too late for the sentiment, though. I'm thinking it's game over in there for us until Evaporation Day. We'll just have to go rollerblading or bike riding together every day.

At one point during our visit, I yelled in vain as the Captain slurped enthusiastically at a puddle of this foul brew. He ignored me, as did the little white lab puppy who had come over to piss into the same pool. Dogs are like little living Japanese fetish videos.

Then and there I decided the time has come for a vet checkup and some additional vaccinations. He needs heartworm tests and possibly a crucifix and garlic necklace if he's ever going to be allowed in my bed again.

I was warned by the vet's assistant when I went in for a price quote that dog parks are a sure bet for at LEAST a case of the worms, and that's just the most obvious parasite. Imagine how much worse it'll get when our famous Minnesota biting insects join the fun.

However, the vet will require money, so I'm thinking I should fund it either through eBay or an art raffle. Expect to see more details on this within a week or so. I'd do commissions, but I still owe like four people and the list goes back several years. I am a failure in that field, and ought to stop setting myself up for further humiliation.

By the way, on my way out of the splashy chaos of the dog park, I met a woman on her way in with an immaculately groomed and combed sheltie in her arms. She was carrying her dog over a parking lot mud puddle and headed right into the bowels of hell itself. I felt like I had to warn her, and sure enough, she turned right around and took Fluffy back to the car. Fluffy was uberpissed; he probably wanted to roll in some half-frozen dew claw blood before dinnertime. But the lady was glad for the heads-up, so ha-ha, Fluffy. Ha-ha all OVER you.