The Senakams | Corgi + 3

Ley See Tong (Red packet candy)

I recently wrote an article at work on Chinese New Year traditions (there are many Chinese-American doctors in the Bay Area that our company would LOVE to do more business with).

Download aaan_chinese_new_year.doc

Having lived here in the States for the past 12 years, I can't remember the last time our family celebrated New Year the way I wrote about in the article. The whole red packet, new clothes, dragging ourselves all around town doing the "gong hey fat choy" thing. I'm sort of reminescent of it, the "sort of" stems from the fact that there were always a few unfortunate things that prohibited the childhood me from fully enjoying this joyous occasion.

The one inconvenience that I could usually overlook (except when I'm forced to look at the photo album my family kept diligently through the years) was the gorgeous new dresses my mom put me in year after year. Those who knew me as a child will remember those occasions where I was kicked out of the girl's bathroom at restaurants coz I should've known that "fay jai" (chubby little boys) like me are not welcomed. While I understood the dresses were meant to be nice things for me since I've been a great kid all year, I'm sure that I was not the only person that hesitated at the door, contemplating whether I should go out in public in attires dripping in laces and velvet trims that could have me arrested for cross-dressing.

This is not Chinese New Year, but you get the idea

After successfully convincing ourselves that I was not in drag, we would then set out on our "Bai Leen" tour, starting from my grandparents (paternal then maternal), and then other relatives in descending order of seniority. For some reason, we almost always visit our very elderly "Tai Gong" (Great grandpa) last.

I hate to admit that as a child, I saw this visit as an unfortunate obligation with a small consolation at the end. To the childhood me, Tai Gong seemed way too old and frail to be compatible with life, and I always imagined him throwing up bloody phlegm and dropping dead right in front of us. I remember the dread my sister and I felt when we knew it was time for us to enter that dark room filled with "old people smell" to see Tai Gong. There he would always be, year after year, sitting motionless and stoic in his traditional Chinese outfit, as ancient as a fossilized redwood tree. After our haste "gong hey fat choy, sun tai geen hong", he would slowly cock his head to where we stood, try to mumble something back to us that we could never understand, and reach out a deeply wrinkled and mottled hand to pet us on our heads and hand us our ley see. I'm embarrassed to describe the relief when we can finally exit the room, clutching the biggest ley see we've collected all year. Tai Gong was a generous man and I wish I knew him before he was sick. He died when I was 8 or 9.

On a less morbid note, there were many, many things that I eagerly looked forward to during Chinese New Year. I would usually empty out the Tsuen Hub (candy box) with gusto days before New Year, especially when Ley See Tong (red packet candy) is involved.

Ley See Tong (I think this one is a knock-off brand), still enjoyed by me yearly around this time

A whole week of vacation, the aroma of frying neen go (sticky rice cake), stacks of cash from red packets (that usually gets "deposited into our college funds" by our parents immediately) were other New Year goodies that I most relished.

Now looking back as grown-ups, my worries of Tai Gong dropping dead and dresses that made me look girly seemed so insignificant compared to how lucky we were to be surrounded by family that loved us and cherished us and allowed us to be totally care-free kids. I think I owe my family a big thank you. THANK YOU!!

A Birthday Drenched in Fun and Blessing

Alas, the big day has arrived... Bryson turned 3 today! Yippee!!

The birthday boy knew that today's the day that he gets to be the boss (more so than usual), so he invited himself onto our bed first thing in the morning and demanded kisses and snuggles and belly-rubs. I have to say that if a month ago you told me I'm going to be smooching a furry 4-legged thing with bad morning-breath in my own bed I'll say you're crazy. But now the only thing crazier is I can't get enough of it, bad breath and all. He's just like a big cuddly stuffed animals that plays with you (and stinks a little).

First order of business of the day (after ample snuggling) was to build Bryson his birthday present. Yes, assembly is required, as shown below:

Bryson looks on as Daddy diligently builds his first house (we're trying to teach Bryson the value of property investment in the Bay Area)

Oh, who cares about real estate. A gigantic chew toy sounds more like the ideal b-day gift

Hurricane Bryson leaves nothing but a path of destruction

Hurricane Bryson finally contained

A glass of vino, the perfect birthday lunch!

Uh oh... the alcohol is rendering the birthday boy a bit disinhibited. No lewd conduct in public, please!

No canine birthday is ever complete without a visit to what must come pretty close to dog heaven, Point Isabel. The sky looked gray and heavy and most cars were pulling out of the parking lot when we arrived. We knew we were taking a chance venturing into the depths of this immense park of open space without the protection of any rain gear (while Bryson's new raincoat is staying perfectly dry in the comforts of our home).

You'd think it'll be common sense to turn back and grab rain gear when you see sky like this, but no, some people just don't use their head that way

Oh, come on, a little bit of mud won't kill us, plus I can use to walk off the buzz from lunch

And of course, as soon as we reached the deepest end of the park, the sky opened. I don't think there's anything canines enjoyed more than frolicking in rain and mud, which unfortunately made us humans felt cold and utterly miserable. But well, what can we say, it's Bryson's birthday and if he's happily drenched, we are happily drenched.

I don't think he'd be quite as jolly though if he knew what was coming next. Completely unequipped for rainy weather, we didn't even have a spare towel in the car to wipe the mud off. But thoughtful as ever, a pet wash is located right next to the parking lot specifically catering to muddy buddies like our Bryson. So us trio trodded straight into the pet wash; or perhpas more accurately us humans trodded, Bryson being dragged, as very much to Bryson's dismay, there were shrieking blow-dryers and strange smelling shampoos and several very large and muddy dogs. But business needed to be taken care of.

 
I don't have a good feeling about this...

I don't know why but I feel a lot smaller all of a sudden (what happened to all my fur?!)

Apart from a few escape attempts (and consequent near strangulation), we managed to wash half the mud off Bryson and transferred the other half to ourselves, and survived almost intact. And now we can head home and get to the fun stuff...

A birthday cake! For me? (tears of gratitude, flowing silently)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR BRYYYYY-SON
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! YEAH!!!! (birthday wish made)

Oohhhh, it's so pretty, I don't know if I want to eat it...

Oh, what the heck!

As we watched Bryson ravage his carob birthday cake (courtesy to George, a most wonderful dog-lover's paradise), we realize how lucky we really are to have him in our lives. Without him, we wouldn't have the motivation to enjoy all the wonderful parks and the beautiful nature all around us. Without him, I wouldn't have chatted up with the homeless woman that Bryson adores (probably has to do with the fact that she, like Bryson, hangs out a lot by the garbage disposal), and learned what a bad day really means. Without him, I would never have a reason to learn to manage my impatience, anxiety and frustration over the littlest thing.

We were truly drenched today, not in rain though but in some serious blessing.

Human Training 101

Bryson is teaching us who's really needing the training here. Here we are, diligently practising our "sit" and "down" thousands of times a day. Each time Bryson performs a move correctly (or even incorrectly), we humans gets so excited that we automatically go into this sequence: squeal repeatedly ("yeah! good boy!"), pat head, give treat. In essense, Bryson has conditioned us into perfect Treat Dispensing Machines.

OK, human, now, extend right hand from behind your back, drop treat in my mouth

Hey human! What's the hold up?! Errrr, I'll get the treat myself

OK human, this one's easy. Reach down with right hand, retrieve bone, lay it in front of me, you can do it

Even though Bryson thinks he has us trained, we decided we need to go to obedience class to get some professional help. It's a funny story how we found out about this class. It's offered by a lady named Sasha who owns a company called In the Company of Dogs. One day, on a walk by the Emeryville Marina, we ran into this lady (whom we later know to be Sasha) and her 3 dogs. Immediately we noticed that Bryson loves playing with one of her dogs (a bichon-frise mix? called DJ), a rarity given he's a bit shy (or snooty, or regal, whatever you wanna call it). We had a great conversation with the lady while watching them play, talking about corgis, good parks in the area, home-made treats, just general doggy chit-chat. Then when we remarked on how well-trained her dogs are and how we hope Bryson's first obedience class at Sirius will go well that weekend, she goes, "well, I'm a dog trainer too and my class also starts this weekend". Well, it's a no brainer from that point on. We like her, Bryson adores DJ, her dogs are like 3 perfect angels. Count us in! And here we are at our first class a few days later:

Bryson: look at those amateurs, I think we're doing much better. BTW, that's Sasha in green and DJ in his fluffy white coat

I think that guy in the back's a bit unstable, we'd better move

It was a good class. Bryson had learned how to do a "down" from his first class (or should we say we have learned to dispense treats when Bryson does a down), there was no dog fight and no illegal indoor defecation (only 2 dogs had to excuse themselves to avoid hyperventilation). Now if we could only train him to walk himself, or even better, pee and poop in the toilet (and flush and leave the seat down when he's done).

Now we realize that all work and no play makes Bryson a dull boy. Here're some playtime pictures:

Leisurely stroll on a beautiful sandy beach (OK, more like a muddy beach full of sticks and rocks)

Ahhh... Point Isabel, the largest off-leash dog park in America, even the air smells fresher here

Eh... I thought we just met

Look! Another corgi! OK, you can sniff my behind

Intelligent corgis lined up for a tasty treat from the latest model Human Treat Dispenser 2.0

Say cheeeeeeeze!!

Do we have to go?? I looooove this place!

Can we go back to Point Isabel.... pu-leeeeaz.......

The Other Golden Globe goes to...

OK, apart from Sacha Baron Cohen's acceptance speech for Borat, the rest of Golden Globe was, well, boring.

So, we decide to give our own award, the Other Golden Globe. And to simplify things, there's only one category: Best Comedy. And the nominees are... (drum roll please)

(1) Nail Salon by Anjelah Johnson.  Thanks Van for supplying this wonderful foreign film. Anyone who has ever had a manicure/pedicure anywhere in the country can appreciate the culturally-insensitive humor here.

(2) Corgi and the Invisible Snack Ball by Goro. This documentary is so well-done that we're tempted to try this out on Bryson. But someone pointed out that in this country such a practice would be considered a cruel and unusual punishment.

(3) The Case of a Mistaken Identity by a random British Cabbie. This is a real news clip that was broadcasted in front of millions. Apparently, this British Cabbie (identified later as Mr. Goma) was at the BBC station waiting to pick up IT journalist, Guy Kewney, who was supposed to be interviewed that day. So, when someone yelled "...Mr Guy Kewney?", the cabbie identified himself, thinking Mr. Kewney is ready to be picked up. Well, turns out the show was just getting started, and Mr. Goma, now mistakenly identified as Guy Kewney (a white, bearded guy) was ushered onto the set, clipped with a microphone, and interviewed about the Apple lawsuit that he knows nothing about. Talk about good sport.

 

And the Other Golden Globe goes to.... (the poll is now open for online audience voting in the Comments section)

Beauty Day (and small health scare)

Every dog has his day. Bryson had his today. He doesn't mind being labeled as a metrosexual, he knows looks is everything in this town. And boy did he get the grand treatment: hair cut, bubble bath, followed by mani/pedi/ear cleaning, and most importantly, anal glands expression (don't even ask me what that is). Bryson is again a happy boy.

Hmm... wonder if this hair do complement my new raincoat

The groomer, Lena Swann, is most patient and professional. I read a lot about her knowledge of dogs and her compassion for them (she also rescues boxers). So when Bryson was done and she came out and asked me with a slight concerned look on her face, "why did the breeder give up Bryson?", I was panic-stricken. Was something wrong with him? A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind... there's no chance of us bringing him back to the breeder (even though she promised a full refund if we return him in the 1st year for any reason), but images of him hooking up to an IV on a respirator just drained all the blood from my head. Seeing that I turned sheet white, Lena reassured me that it's probably just a small thing, but she noticed that he has ground both of his middle toes of his front paws down to the quick (the deeper part of the nail that's not supposed to be exposed), which may be an indication of shoulder dysplasia.  That reminded me that a couple times after long walks, we noticed some blood on his front paw, and we couldn't find a cut that would explain it.

Concerned, we took him to the vet the next day at the Broadway Pet Hospital (really makes me wish we have a vet friend). The vet was kind, knowledgeable and patient. She examined him and observed the way he walked, and concluded that it's probably not a serious medical issue. Rather, it's likely because he's not used to walking on paved roads, and definitely not on the kind of long walks we took him on. Then, when he gets tired, he drags his front paws which caused the wear and bleeding. While I was relieved to hear that it's not a life-threatening condition, I was hit with a pang of guilt.  So all those times he refuses to walk and give me that "look", which I interpreted as his defiance, was him trying to tell me "ma, I can't walk anymore coz my nails are bleeding"... What kind of mother am I??

Those Crazy Human Food

We truly felt like new parents in many sense. Since having Bryson with us, we rarely eat out anymore for the fear of leaving him at home alone, oh, in case of earthquake/fire/thunderstorm/miscellaneous imagined natural disasters that never occur in the Bay Area.

But, as we slowly realize, occasional separation is as unavoidable as taxes and death. So reluctantly, we gathered our courage and ventured out again on our dining expedition. Boy, was it worth it. (Bryson who??)

Maybe my taste buds just went into hibernation after the nasty cold and a few weeks of Healthy Choice Frozen Dinner, everything we had since just seems to be bursting with flavor, and I feel compelled to recommend a couple places to those of you fortunate enough to be living in (or visiting) the Bay Area.

First off, an old favorite: Gregoire on Piedmont. They're voted as one of the top 9 take-out places in the SF Bay Area (whatever happened to #10...). We discovered this little gem of a French take-out soon after moving to Emeryville. They use the freshest seasonal ingredients so their menu changes every month. The beauty is you can go on their website, click what you want (or fax/call it in), and voila! 15 min and you get a gourmet meal. There isn't anything we don't like here. But if I were on death roll and I have to choose one last thing to put in my mouth before I get executed, it's Gregoire's potato puffs. Fluffy and creamy inside, crispy and flavorful outside, accompanied by a different dipping sauce every month (the sauce is awesome but the puff is perfect on its own). You can't stop popping them even though they're about 1000 degrees inside and giving you 1st degree burn inside your mouth. You just die and go to heaven (where there's free-flowing Gregoire potato puffs).

 
A humble store front packs a punch in its offerings

But men cannot live on French food alone. So the other night we felt adventurous and went trying out this place that our Ethiopian friends highly recomemnds (says it reminds her of home): Addis in Berkeley. I'll admit I used to think that Ethiopian food sucks (turns out the specific dish I had had tons of lentils in it which is one legume I despise). So I headed out with some trepidation, but as soon as we got out of our car, our nose told us we're at the right place... that rich, spicy aroma just hypotizes you and say "come in, come in now..." It's located in a small house which is cozy and comfortable, perhaps trying a tad too hard to look "African". We know our waitress' recommendation was trustworthy when we asked her about the "kitfo" and her response was "First-timer? No, you'd hate it". And her recommendation was spot on. We had a combo of a spicy red curry with beef (berbere), chicken in spiced butter, and other items we could not identify but tasted great nonetheless. The best part was we eat everything with our hands (with Ethiopian bread called injera), and man was it finger-licking good. (Sorry, Colonel!) You know the food is good when you keep saying "man, I'm stuffed" and a minute later the plate is sparkling clean.

Well, that concludes our review for now. Will keep you posted as our culinary adventures continues.

BFF! (Best Friend Forever, duh...)

The other day Bryson received his first package EVER from Cousin Brady!

Uh, excuse me, mommy, I think that's addressed to ME!!

Bryson tore into the package with gusto (of course only when mommy gave the OK signal). A knowing smile flashed across his face as soon as he caught a glimpse of what lays inside. In that instant, he knows Cousin Brady is going to be his BFF. The perfect raincoat!! One that makes him look ultra smart with a cutting that's most flattering on his sometimes-hard-to-fit figure. I think he had tears in his eyes.

I know, I know, it's a bit preppy, but it most certainly speaks to my good taste for high-quality fashion. Thanks Cousin Brady!!

But wait, how do you know my name?

Unfortunately, it did not rain the next day (Bryson's keeping his dewclaws crossed for a rainy day). But that means we can hit another dog park. This will be the 4th dog park we've tried. It's a bit like scouting out for the perfect cafe when you first move to a new neighborhood. You know, it has to have just the right combination of the java, the scene, the location, the barista, etc, etc. The first 3 parks didn't work out for a variety of reasons: big dogs (Bryson seems to have an issue with big guys since he's only hung out w/ corgis his entire life), crazy wide-eyed dogs that were all frothing at the mouth (hello, rabies!), parks that were too muddy/dry/small/big.... Plus as a show dog Bryson was not familiar to the idea of "dog play". I guess breeders discourage that since they don't want dogs to be wrestling each others and jumping on the judge in the show ring... So we didn't have much hope he'll mingle this time, until we pulled up to its parking lot- the first dog that greeted us there was this guy:

Hi! Hi! Hi!!! My name is Cooper and I'm a corgi too! I know my hair is fluffy and I might have a tiny bit of dirt on my face, but I want you to know that I'm very excited you've come to join us!!! Woof!

With a warm welcome like that, even Bryson opened up and entertained the idea of "playing" a little bit (he even tried rolling in the dirt, but decided quickly that's it's not his cup of tea since it messes up his hair).

Cadet Bryson! Cadet Cooper! Atten...TION!

OK, OK, I admit it... I'm kinda having fun!

Nice and open and mostly importantly fenced, perfect for our Bryson who's going to start his first obedience class this weekend

The sun started sinking into the horizon and we reluctantly had to leave (especially since we ran out of treats). But it was a good day and Bryson left with a smile on his face. He dreams of the day he gets to meet Cousin Brady and roll in the dirt with him. One day, yes, one day...

A Day in the Life of Bryson

Well, Bryson's day pretty much goes like this...

Wake up at dawn. Take a peek over to the big bed. Realize nobody else's up yet. Scratch that itch down there (boy does that feel great). Catch another hour of snooze. Still nobody's up. Walk out to private balcony. Wedge nose between bars, feeling like the most-ignored doggy in the world...

Nobody except Crazy Chicken is up with poor Bryson

Finally, the humans get their lazy arses off the bed. Off to the morning walk they go. Sometimes they drag themselves around the block and call it a day. Sometimes they'd go to this special place with a lot of grass, water and best of all, birds. Bryson loves birds. Says they all taste like chicken.

Once they hit home, out come the toys. Yelping flamingoes, sqeaking squirrels, food-dispensing ball, you name it, they have it.

Gnawing on flamingo leg while imagining it's the seagull he narrowly missed earlier

When the toys are no longer fun, lunch will be demanded. A usual menu looks like this:

Bacon-and-cheese croissant, followed by cannoli for desert, courtesy of Bella and Daisy, the fanciest dog bakery in town (much to Bryson's delight and the human wallets' dismay)

Bon appetite! (the humans can only stand aside and watch)

Yuummmmm......

Manner's not required in this household

The afternoon usually consists of naps from all the tiring morning activities. A car ride is sometimes inevitable to accompany the humans on chores.

BAWWWW-ring!

A sunset walk by the marina rounds off the day.

Off to the sack, and another ho-hum day begins again soon.

What would you do?

Both Jacques and I have been sick for the past week and have been in semi-hibernation mode. We think the transmission goes like this: me contaminating Bryson through copius germ-laden kisses à Bryson becomes the silent carrier and didn’t get sick since he’s immune to human colds (lucky dog) à Bryson passing the germ onto Jacques who tries to avoid the wet kisses but somehow gets surprise-attacked with one or two a day.

The deadly harbor of germs

Having depleted our supply of Kleenex and decongestants, I turned to the internet for distractions from the nose running like a leaky faucet. There I ran into this article on the SF Chronicle about people who became millionaires for hanging with Google since its humble beginnings.

And not all these people have the high-tech jobs that made you wish you had majored in computer-something in college. These are cafeteria workers, secretaries, office managers, in other words, regular people like you and me. By working with and being loyal to Google since its startup days, they’re made millionaires through Google’s stock options that sky-rocketed in value in the past few years (today Google closes at $505/share, can you believe it?!). So it begs the question: O Googlers, where art thou? What are these people doing now they hardly have to work for the rest of their lives? I hear myself thinking, who the &*%@ cares?! They’re rich, I’m not, and it made my cold-stricken day that much more miserable. Time to click over to peruse today’s entertainment news. But then I caught a side bar on the article with this interesting poll: what would you do if you’re a Google millionaire?

Now, that’s a thought I’m more than happy to entertain. What would I do? (Harpstrings in the background) Well, perhaps I’d like to drop everything and go travel (with the family including Bryson, of course). All of the 7 wonders and all the UNESCO heritage sites and of course all the best bargain shopping in the world. Or perhaps I’d like to open a neat little shop in the chicest neighborhood in town selling my own line of greeting cards and stationary. Or perhaps we’ll move back to Asia and open a family-run boutique hotel on the finest stretch of white sand beach on some undiscovered gem of a tropical island. Ahhhhhh….. my head’s already clearing up and the serotonin is flowing once again through my synapses, flooding me with a sense of made-belief well-being (if only serotonin has a longer half-life)…

So, what would YOU do?

CSI- Emeryville

A heinous crime has been committed. In the darkness of the night, the criminal crawled up to the unsuspecting victim, ruthlessly mauled her to pieces, and left the crime scene without a trace... if not for the mug shot taken by a hidden camera the next morning, this could remain a cold case forever...

Who? Me?! Nawww......

Exhibit A: White Shaggy Rug, shown here degutted

Bryson Sunak Senakarn, you have been officially put behind bars until your parents post bail

Crying wouldn't help you at this point

A decent bed, vintage wine, and a fairly harmless bunk-mate... I guess jail isn't that bad after all

Crime scene cleanup

Bail has finally been posted. Time for a mocha at the Scharffenberger cafe in Berkeley...

...followed by a totally undeserved belly-rub

Sexy Back

Hello everyone, Bryson here. I decided that I'm old enough to write my first blog entry, as well as to answer the endless fan mail that keeps coming in.

That's me receiving fan mails from all over the globe with my satellite dish

First of all, Cousin Brady, great to hear from you! I've seen your photos on your blog, I have to say that your octopus Halloween outfit was so fabulous that I'm considering coercing my mom to get me one next year. I was told at the vet that I'm about 31 lb, and mommy said she eyeballed me to be about 20" (you see I'm a little vertically challenged and kinda big-boned, but mommy said I'm a pretty boy anyway). Thanks in advance! And can't wait to meet you and your parents!

I can't read so I'm not sure what my parents wrote about me so far (a neighbor rodent is dictating this for me right now), so I have no idea if they have mentioned the new music video I'm going to make. You'll dig it, believe me. I was inspired by the Justin Timberlake "Sexy Back" video which  I was forced to watch like 50 times while my parents were away (it was kinda entertaining actually, and did prevent me from wetting myself out of separation anxiety). Looking at his skinny behind, I know I can do much better. I don't have the whole thing worked out yet, in fact I only have one move so far, but hope you like it:

I'm bringing sexy back... (imagine the butts wiggling)

I'll be sure my production company (aka my parents) put it on the blog when it done. And thank you all for your support!

Worried parents

It's the first couple days back to work in 2007, and it's been rough. No, not that I've been promoted or anything, it's just the first time we had to deal with a "sick child" while at work. Poor Bryson was neutered yesterday and now we find ourselves in completely alien territory. We know that we're inexperienced, and we're willing to learn, but we find ourselves utterly clueless when it comes to the world of vet medicine...

First of all, he was a bit excited and agitated when he came out of the vet office (looks like a little gremlin). To add insult to injury, he was attired in that infamous e-collar, supposedly to protect him from himself picking at his wound later. Poor kid, he probably couldn't see anything out of that collar, and to be teased by neighborhood canines (that damn poodle dare laugh at him, look at his own ridiculous hair do), and banging into everything now that his head is 3-times wider, and scooping up dirt (and an occasional low-hanging X'mas tree ornament) wherever he goes, all dignity is lost.

Do I look utterly ridiculous or is the mirror playing a trick on me?

That stupid e-collar, I'm not an expert but it's quickly apparent to us that it's not doing what it's supposed to do. I guess no one would have guessed looking at his physique that he'd be so flexible. But I guess when corgis set their minds on something, they will prevail. Somehow the discomfort was intense enough that he managed to contort his body to this weird configuration (hind leg almost behind head) so he could reach his wound. But everytime he struggles into that position, he would scrape the wound mercilessly with the edge of the collar. Ouch!! It worried me to tears when I couldn't stop him from hurting himself and seeing his scar get redder and redder (he was determined to get to it). So we finally risk looking like hypochondriacs and consulted with the vet, and came up with this contraption:

Tah-dah! The new and improved e-collar lined with ultra-soft double-layered ace bandage

We also came home with another collar (No-Bite), bitter orange (stings like crazy), and lidocaine spray (made him dance on 2 legs), all costing a lot of money with unknown efficacy. But we were as determined to help him feel better as he was in picking out his stitches. 

By late today, our overzealous efforts to help him calm down seemed to have worked, maybe a bit too well. He was completely out with his mouth hanging open and we had to check to make sure he was still breathing at times. I was getting worried until he did a beeline straight into the kitchen as soon as the first piece of meat touched the frying pan at dinner time. I guess he's OK after all.

I hate to admit it but I was completely frantic and helpless when he started picking at his stitches, that for a moment I thought we had made a mistake bringing him to our family. Other pet owners would have known what to do, and he wouldn't have to suffer like that in our incompetent hands... It broke my heart to see him in pain, he was happy and healthy and bouncing around just the day before and now he's hurting and infertile. My conscious mind knows that this is for his own good, and for better or worse he will recover in time, and there'll be a day that we'll look back and laugh at our unneccessary fears and worries. But for now, I can't peel my eyeballs off him in case he start picking again or that we OD'd him on tramadol...

Tramadol disguised as tasty Italian meatballs (he gobbles them right up, necessitating the Ziploc bag)

Here are pix from happier, more relaxed days:

Daddy, can I go play with... er... what's your name?

Done with our first bath, OK, can I get out now?

Steaming from the nostrils

A Happy New Year's Day

New Year countdown is overrated...

I much prefer a walk with daddy and mommy

I like big butts and I cannot lie!

You got booger hanging from your nose, ha ha!

That's where mommy works... sort of

Fog rolling in on our New Year's Day walk on Hollis

Another scenic spot along our walk... only that it's Pixar's campus and off-limit to commoners like us