Except for the needles, a just about perfect day.

Party at the dog-park with Gilly, a pack of big and frolicsome dogs, and one entirely infatuated pretty girl who understood that Gilgamesh is magic.

Glowing, he pretended to be annoyed by her unflagging attention.

Any time she wandered off, he went and got her back.

This was followed by a trip to the Vermont Country Store for local gouda and extra-aged cheddar samples (dog help me if I ever come out of there without a loaded toothpick).

Then, a casual vet visit slipped in under the radar while the cheese-bliss held.

His latest eye problem is healing well, he’s Lyme-boostered, lepto-vaccinated and anti-rabied, and he has no mad cow disease (which we always discuss in detail because it’s funny, especially when I call him a mad cow and chase him until he moos).

After all our perfect spring day adventures he was in such fine spirits he wagged and grinned engagingly at his vet before he remembered that vets are evile painmongers and he hates them for they are The Oppressor and shall not be allowed to witness his pleasure.

It was too late:

Doc Shaw caught him smiling.

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