Mondays!  No one seems as happy for Mondays as me!  Don't get me wrong, I like lounging around the den as much as the next dog, but after a few days I'm ready to make an impression on the world again.
Mother never seems as happy about Mondays.  We get to wear our work clothes and head off to the clinic. 

Dad says "At least there's football", but I don't understand what that means.  I don't get any new balls on Mondays, and none that smell or even taste like a foot-- believe me I would remember that!  I love to lick feet!

A cute little cottonball of a dog came in to the clinic today.  She wasn't happy that it was a Monday either.  When she first arrived she was dazed, and shaky.  She had holes all over her back and sides, and little pieces of meat and fat sticking out too.  She was breathing fast and smelled of fear and sticky red syrup.  Mother said "the poor little girl's in shock".  Most of the team had left for the day, but Vonnie and my dad went to work to try to put the little piece of fluff back together.  She wasn't talking, so I decided that Fluffy would be a good name for her.   Fluffy was one tough cookie too:  she got tubes and wires connected to her, and then she took a nap for a bit while doctor dad removed some of the dried-up looking meat pieces and used string to hold together the rest.  He also put some long strips of plastic under her skin,  "to help it drain", he said.  After my parents were done with her, she had more holes than when she came in, though she did smell a lot better and her breathing had returned to normal.

Fluffy woke up as quietly as she had gone to sleep and I had new-found respect for white little cottonball dogs.  Fluffy mumbled some things after she woke; talking about her whole chest being sore, about the giant black dog that bit her over and over thinking she was a rabbit, and only once wondering where her mom was.  The fluff dog did get to go home that night, but I knew that it was going to be a sleepless and sore night for her.
After everything at the clinic was clean and tidy again we got to go home.  When we finally got home Bea was upset that our dinner was late.  Dad missed his football.  I couldn't help but think of poor Fluffy and all her wounds -- too sore to even lick them. 
I realized that I was right after all -- there are a lot worse things than Mondays.