Dog day

In the words of the great Jim Lahy (Trailer Park Boys for anyone who either isn't Canadian or hasn't yet found it on Paramount Comedy Channel)
'Shit winds are blowing Randy, shit winds,' or words to that effect. But I won't go there, not yet.

On the subject of poopy winds though, we are dog-sitting Brady (above). He is a cute little dog who looks like a small sheep, so a lamb then, and he belongs to Kev's parents.
Now, I know that everyone else on the planet already knows this, but if you are single and would like not to be, you need to borrow a dog. Everyone, but EVERYONE comes and talks to you. If'n you can borrow a dog that looks like a small sheep, aka a lamb, then you are more than good to go. You need to do a bit of background research on what the dog eats, although I can see the pick-up line opportunities in not knowing,
'I don't know, what would YOU recommend/what food to YOU prefer?'

But the down side - well obviously the downside if you aren't single can be having everyone talk to you about your dog's cuteness and food preferences - is the poopa-scooping, honestly, that side of things stinks. Especially if you have a thinly disguised obsessive side lurking just beneath the surface as I clearly do. I feel obliged to remove not just the steaming pile itself, but everything it has lain on, every blade of grass around it, the earth beneath, and the earth below that I salt. Well, not the salting, but all the rest. And then two wet wipes for good measure and a double baggy. I think I am too obsessive for this to go on long term.
For his part, Brady is equally obsessive, believing that it is necessary to dry pee on everything vertical that we pass.

The food side of things is dealt with by the kitchen genie - Kevin, since it is a very precise science, as is the delivering of meds, and I am glad those are his chores.

In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the dog-sheep sleeps tonight. Tomorrow, more walkies. And I don't like the new meaning (to me) of 'doggy bag'.