First Aid

The little grubworm had her two-month checkup today—her first time seeing a doctor since she was four or five days old. She's almost doubled her birth weight and is perfectly healthy, which I take to mean that my own recent diet of mostly Cheeze-Its and quesadillas, washed down with Earl Grey, hasn't had any short-term adverse affects. What new parents say about the first round of shots being harder on them than on the kid is pretty much true. She's sound asleep right now, and I'm still picturing her poor sweet face when she thought it was over after two shots and then the nurse went in for two more.

I haven't cooked much of interest the last couple days because I'm trying to get a chapter of a particularly horrendous freelance editing job (an all-new, fully revised edition of a recently fully revised all-new, all-purpose cookbook) out in the mail this afternoon and haven't had a chance to think about suppers much. (And when I thought about what I had for breakfast this morning—coffee and wasabi peas—it scared me, so I've stopped thinking about food altogether, at least for the time being.)

Wagner stepped on a piece of glass or something out in the yard and cut open his paw; this morning the Super doused it in hydrogen peroxide, which Wagner then tried to lick up off the ground. The foot doesn't appear to bother him any—but then, it wouldn't: he's the dog I caught chewing on a large shard of glass a couple weeks ago. (Our yard seems to be situated on top of a late-'80s garbage heap, because the dogs keep digging crap up and scattering it all over the place—Coke Classic cans are a favorite, as are, well, large shards of glass.)