One year, one weenie, and a county that took me in

This week, Winnie and I made our annual pilgrimage to the vet in town. You know the routine: smiles, treats, betrayal. Winnie has spent the last few days deeply offended by her updated shots, while I have been informed, through dramatic sighs and side-eye from her, that this was entirely my fault.

Our recovery plan has involved Christmas decorating and extreme lounging. Mostly for Winnie. While she has been roasting herself in front of the fireplace like a gas-station hot dog that’s been on the roller too long, I’ve been hanging stockings, one for me, one for the ween, and stringing lights whi...