Your weekend routine

N. Lidstrom the Shih Tzu lived to be 20(+/-) One day I was in an Amish general store and noticed the woman behind me was hefting a big bag of kibble. I let her cut in front of me and she mentioned the dog food was really good and asked if I had a dog. I told her about my then-18-year-old pup. She asked what I fed him and I answered I made his food from chicken, lamb, veggies, and brown rice. She nearly dropped her bag and yelled at me.

"You are killing your dog. You are shortening his life with that diet! Go back RIGHT NOW and get him a bag of dog food!"

"Lady?" I said, "I got him as a rescue at ten-ish. He survived Hurricane Katrina. He survived an abusive home and when he first came to live with me, I had to buy a party box of tacos and mix them with his food to get him to eat anything. Then I had to get another box and save the wrappers so he would eat his salt-free doggy spa meals thinking he was getting a taco. He's fine."

"YOU ARE KILLING YOUR DOG!" she yelled. Again.

At that point, the man behind the counter leaned over and yelled, "Her dog is eighteen. That's nine hundred and three in dog years. If I live that long, they'd better let me eat what I want!"

She was quiet for the rest of the time she was in there, well, except for leaning toward me as she left and hissing, "You are shortening his LIFE!"

Weekends, I used to go to Kentucky to wander around the farmstands, look for those big, not-of-the-Lord Brahma chickens, and hang out with friends. Now I work 12 to 15 hours a day handling the scary people who call the entertainment lines. The following Mondays I either work or decompress by devoting my free time to knitting appliance cozies, scribblng whatever makes me laugh, and drawing snotty cartoons.

Someone please come knock on the door when the plague is over.