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My mother has had Chewie put down.
This is actually only the second time I've ever mentioned Chewie on this blog. I never really liked the little jerk. Yes, he had a rough early few years. His life was much improved when my Mom rescued him. However, he never became what I would call an affectionate or an obedient dog. But Mom still liked him. She's put up with me for all these years, so I guess she must have developed some fondness for stubborn assholes. Go figure.
In recent months, Chewie developed Canine Cognitive Dysfunction, the dog equivalent of Alzheimer's. He walked in circles, got stuck under furniture, and stood by his full dog dish barking for food. Even for Chewie, he was becoming higher maintenance than usual, to the point that Mom could no longer meet his needs.
So that's the second dog we've lost in 2016. (The third if we count Dad's puppy, Tyr, who died in March.) We're running out.
Watch yourself, July. It's dangerous out there.
Christmas Eve 2013: we fried a turkey.
Before, during, and after pictures above. It was easier than I thought, but I overcooked it, turning the skin into a nearly impenetrable shell. The meat inside was still juicy and tasty, and I consider the entire exercise a success simply because I didn't burn myself or blow anything up.
The dogs liked it more than I did.
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