It's The Medical Snafu Of The Century

I'm glad you asked. During the time I blogger-slacked, as it were, I learned to cook.
Let me clarify. I learned to cook better than I did before. This did not come from a sudden interest in pots and pans. The metamorphosis occurred when diabetes hit the castle. Homer and I were diagnosed the same day!

I took him in for a routine checkup last summer.
It was time for his mammogram.

Somehow they got his gender parts mixed up and before he knew it they were pricking his paws with needles and trying to shovel insulin pumps down his throat. And he thought we were going shoe shopping.
You never heard such screaming in all your life. It was shameful. All the way home I tried to explain how he went in for his annual squish-session and came out with diabetes. He still hasn't forgiven me.
Now we live in a world of blood sugar meters, expensive test strips (hard to find for animals), sugar substitutes and pills that make people crazy. I've we've he's lost more sleep over this than the day he broke up with one of those floozy dogs in the Dog Blogosphere. He's completely inconsolable. And to make matters worse, I've we've he's had to give up Cheetos.

I, in my good-natured Queen way, set upon a path of desperate cooking research to help myself   him manage this most aggravating condition. I'm exhausted trying to cook for him. NOTHING satisfies that dog. I even dyed the Stevia orange, sprinkled it on lettuce and fried some up in a pan to make artificial Cheetos. But do you think he appreciated that?

Maybe this is my way of saying to the blogworld, "I have diabetes."
There. I've said it.
Not to worry. I'm we're he's not nearly as upset as we's was a year ago.
Goodnight.
I've got this.


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