We got Miss Layla home all safe and sound yesterday and she was nice and mellow...I need some of whatever it is they gave her - that stuff is fantastic!! In case you haven't been paying attention, Layla is my 18 month old, 102 pound yellow Lab. Now concentrate..there may be a test later!

This latest adventure starts out with Roger and I getting to the vet's office around 5:00. They were packed and it was HOT in there. They call us back so the doctor can show us Layla's x-rays..let me just stop here and ask WHY?? Why do doctors always feel compelled to SHOW you stuff? If I could handle all that medical stuff, they'd be paying ME the big bucks!

Anyway, we're ushered into this teeny, tiny little surgical room (swear to GOD, there was ACTUAL FREAKING SURGICAL STUFF JUST LAYING AROUND!!)
and the doctor proceeds to show us Layla's x-rays and explain what we're looking at (which was pictures of perfectly healthy legs)...he keeps talking, and talking, and talking (let me also pause right here to say that, in case I haven't made it ABUNDUNTLY clear to you, I DON'T DO MEDICAL STUFF REAL WELL!! There's a reason my oldest son passed out in the bathroom at the doctor's office, after a blood test..he's his Momma's Child!!)

Sooo, this vet just keeps droning on and on and pretty soon..you guessed it, I'm thinking, I'm gonna hit the floor if I don't get the Hell Outta Here!! I pretty much cut the doctor off in mid-sentence, grabbed Layla's meds and RAN out the door.

I thought I'd be okay once I got out of that Hell-Hole, but Noooo, once you're on the path of passing out..there IS no relief in sight, so I mumbled something to Roger along the lines of "Give me the car keys so I can die in peace", and I ran to the car, leaving him to wrangle Layla and her big old cone-headed self.

I got to the car, kicked back and thought "I'll just lay here until I feel better or I die" and to tell you the truth, I didn't really care which one it was. I hear a thump and then the car door opens and Layla hops in. They've given her something to help keep her quiet, and she has no idea where she is, and, basically, doesn't care.

Roger gets in and asks how I'm doing. At this point, I can either #1 talk or #2 continue to live...I can't do both at the same time, so I just tell him to get me home.

We're flying down the highway and I'm feeling worse by the minute...which NEVER happens. I mean, once I get myself prone I usually snap out of it, but now I'm feeling NASEOUS!! I think I'm gonna throw up!! What the Hell? I don't DO throw up!! Honest to God, I've puked maybe three times in my entire life...I was pregnant twice and had the flu the other time...I DO NOT URP!!

Roger asks if I want him to pull over and, of course, I say no, because, remember I DON'T THROW UP...next thing I know, I've blown chunks in my very own lap!
Let me tell you a little known fact...you haven't LIVED until you've driven 20 minutes sitting in a puddle of your own puke. Uh huh...it's an experience, allright.

To tell you how looped Layla was, that big old girl, just sat in the backseat and looked at me like "Dude, you just hurled all over yourself." She could have cared less that my lap was full of undigested lunch and she hadn't eaten all damn day.

Anyway, we got home, I stripped in the utility room and Roger, God Bless His Heart, hosed the car seat off for me.

Why can't I just lead a normal life?

my dog was sent here by a higher power to punish me. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Life with Layla is like life with a 100 pound toddler. Layla is a yellow Lab "puppy" who weighs over 100 pounds, is 18 months old, and like I always tell people...she's not real bright, but she's good looking.

The word "exuberant" is used REPEATEDLY when describing Layla's behavior. For those of you who don't know, exuberant is a euphemism for "wildly out of control and liable to hurl herself into you, full body contact style, at any given moment". She has no concept of her enormous size and believes herself to be a dainty, delicate lap dog (see "she's not real bright" comment above).

I'm a member of a Lab board, comprised of nuts like myself, who feel their lives aren't complete unless they have a manic, four legged toddler in a fur coat, running their lives. I've gotten a lot of good information from that Lab site - enough to have the sense to know this Purgatory is going to last at LEAST until Layla's 3 years old.

Anyway, here's some insights I've gained in my year and a half of Life with Layla:

YOU MIGHT OWN A LAB IF:

You routinely "shave" your clothes before you leave the house.

"Fur" is always a part of your wardrobe.

The blonde (or black or brown) hair stuck in your lipgloss IS NOT yours.

You're not bothered by finding a blonde (or black or brown) hair on your spouse's clothes. (in fact, finding just ONE is a miracle!)

You laught out loud when you hear the words "indestructible dog toy".

You have a basket full of bull penises (bullies) on top of your ice box.

Your butcher knows your dog's name.

Exercise, which you used to refer to as "the E word" is now a daily part of your routine.

The words "It's just a dog" are incomprehensible to you, and might as well be a foreign language.

Your husband, a life-long dog hater, now refers to your dog as "MY dog".

This same husband tells you that if the two of you ever split up, all he wants is the grandfather clock and the dog.

You can remember life BEFORE your dog...but frankly can't understand why you'd WANT to.

P.S. All prayers are appreciated!

About 3 1/2 years ago, my hubby and I lost our minds and went on Weight Watchers Online. We each lost over 100 pounds and, so far, we've both kept it off. Isn't that just WONDERFUL and Oh-So-HEALTHY? and don't we BOTH look FABULOUS? and doesn't it JUST SUCK OUT LOUD THAT I CAN'T EAT WHATEVER I WANT ANYMORE AND I'M ALWAYS STARVING AND CONSTANTLY THINKING ABOUT FOOD?

Seriously, if I had to do it all over again, I'm not sure I'd do it. Losing the weight WAS hard, but, nothing impossible. It's like we just got in a zone and before you know it, the weight was gone. What's hard is keeping it off. I LOVE food, I love everything about food and I can't get past the fact that I can't eat WHAT I want, WHEN I want, AS MUCH as I want, forever.

It IS a big benefit, health-wise, at least it is for Roger. Heart disease runs in his family and his dad died from a massive heart attack at a very young age. So, for Roger, it really IS the smart thing to do. Now Me? That's another story. People in my family live FOREVER. You practically have to KILL us to get rid of us. Witness my mean-as-hell grandmother, who died about 5 minutes before the family killed her.

So, while I'm really glad that Roger's health is going to be much improved, I'm pretty pissed off that one of the great joys of my life, namely eating, is going to be severely curtailed for the rest of my life. I HAVE to keep the weight off in support of and comraderie with my beloved hubby. So, it's all his fault and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to make him pay for it.