Dash Gets His Shots

Ninety-four dollars. Coulda bought an iPod. Taken the family out to dinner twice. Or bought one-twentieth of a high-def television the size of Rhode Island.

What I get?

A distemper shot. The chance to walk around in public carrying a Ziploc baggie full of poop. (Why is it, despite being in the thickest, most freezer-proof Ziploc bag I could find, I still couldn’t bring myself to stick it in my shirt pocket like an after dinner mint?) And a diagnosis that my new puppy, which has only lived with us six days, has fleas like my family has addicts.

Why?

“No Frontline for one year!” my breeder lectured.

Because watching a puppy gnaw off its own ass is great family fun.

So Dash has been fumigated.

And I need a distemper shot.