April 7, 2005
Chapter two of the Peaches-is-a-bitch story. So this morning Kathy comes up with a plan. Peaches will not get in my Ranger because she connects it with going to the vet, or to the groomer. To Ms. Bitch, nothing good has ever come from getting in that truck, ever. Buddy, on the other hand, is too stupid to figure this out and thinks a truck ride is about the coolest thing since road kill. So Kathy gets her sweats on, borrows my keys, goes out, opens the tailgate, Buddy jumps in and starts wagging his tail so hard he almost knocks out my back window. Peaches slinks off, goes out in the back yard and hides. Kathy calls for Peaches but now she is really hiding. So Kathy drives up the road, parks, and goes for her run.

Peaches is out in the back yard acting like she got away with a felony. Amazing. There’s more than one way to con a dog.

Worked on a big drawing of Tall Paul, as in Sheriff Bob Paul of Pima County. I think I over-drew it. Hate that. It takes so much courage to stay loose.

Had a doctor's appointment at noon. Took two hours. Went over my blood tests and tried to understand the prognosis: basically my immune system is overreacting and making antibodies against my thyroid. I've got too much iron and my kidneys are leaking, or spilling protein. Hey, it gets worse. The doctor thinks my hormones are out of whack and that I'm losing testosterone, or the manly stuff I am making is being converted into estrogen (I didn't have the nerve to tell him that during March Madness I cried over that damn Appleby's commercial about the retiring coach, you know the one where his wife takes him to Appleby's and surprises him with the framed photo of his championship team, see I can't even type this without tearing up!).

"Growing old isn’t for sissies."
—Bette Davis