My high school biology teacher used to correct single students who used a plural pronoun to refer to themselves. It became one of the things I could rely on, like the snarling stuffed marmot in his spot on the shelf above the microscopes. The conversations went something like this:
“Um, we don’t think it’s fair for you to give us the exam on Thursday. We have two other tests that day.”
“Who’s we? You have worms?”
Sadly, this warm and fuzzy science memory came back to me today because Sherman is in a plural state. Yes, my canine-loving friends, Sherman is full of vermin: the boy has worms.
After a weekend of feeling like complete and utter crap, I went out to pick up the landmines in the yard so The Electrician and I could get the mowing done. I figured there was no harm in carrying the poop theme on a little longer. My method of clean-up involves a double pair of vinyl medical gloves and a kitchen garbage bag. I find it much easier than those fancy pants scoops the pet store sells, and I generally don’t have an issue handling the nuggets while I’m wearing gloves.
Last night, though, there was a problem. The poop moved. The Electrician comments that Sherman’s deposits were looser than normal, so I expected to struggle a bit while cleaning them up. What I didn’t expect was the centres of the turd piles to be wriggling around in a parasitic frenzy.
I’m on my way to the vet to pick up a round of wormers for the speckled pup. I may never eat Minute Rice again.
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