I had an appointment at the crack of dawn with Doc yesterday.
He insists on seeing his humans at ungodly hours of the day so he can devote the rest of his day to the animals, or at least that's my theory. It's one of the drawbacks of using a vet as your doctor.
He did his usual stints of poking and prodding, listening and tapping and drawing off half a gallon of blood for tests. The blood test results won't be back for a week but you'll be delighted to know that everything else is perfect. He did express surprise that I was trying to lose weight until I explained that it was fuck all to do with health, but that my trousers were getting a little tight and I couldn't be arsed shelling out for new ones.
He got onto the subject of diet.
He knows that I do all the cooking ever since that time Herself tried to poison me, so he asked what kind of dishes I brewed up. He explained that he wanted to know if we were regular. "Regular what?" I replied. "Regular as in shitting" was his response. He tends not to use technical terms, probably because he doesn't know them.
Now one thing I have discovered about my recipes is that they seem to have a remarkable effect on the digestive system. I grant that I have a thing for Spanish onions and manage to sneak them into every meal no matter what. I buy all my stuff locally, and the greengrocer automatically slaps a huge onion on the counter whenever I enter. Even my fry-ups seem to have a remarkable laxative quality though that's one dish where I tend to exclude onions. Within an hour of any meal our house rings to the sound of flatulence which is quite a good party trick. I have to confess to my eternal shame that Herself outclasses myself in that area as her melodies, volume and sheer quantity are a joy to behold. She ranges from "Strangled Duck" through "Distant Motorbike" to a full blown "Quarry Face being demolished with half a ton of Gelignite".
I cooked up a chicken curry last night for dinner.
This morning I was sitting here minding my own business when Herself came moaning out of the jax.
"What's wrong?" asks I politely, though I had a shrewd idea.
"Fuck!" says she. "I'm changing my name to Excretia Borgia".