According to the scale that my dog Javi stepped on, today, at the vet's office, he has gained 12 pounds in the two weeks since we have last seen the vet, which is pure hallucination on someone's part.

"The two scales don't match," said the vet tech; which makes sense.

I wasn't much worried about it. Old Javi is in pretty darn good shape, today. Old boy is out-running Young Dog Morisson on more than a couple of tennis ball tosses a day. He is, also,
not limping like he used to. Rimadyl has proven to be a miracle drug for my old dog. Funny what money can buy. I'm going to have to head out to a street corner and turn a few tricks to pay for his medicine. I'm such a tired old piece, though, I'm scared that there won't be much of a market for me. Maybe I could get hired at McDonald's and flip your burger. Or maybe I could host your MTV. The possibilities are endless. It all starts with thoughts. Figure out what you want and that is what you could be.

I lied about turning tricks, though. I don't want Pat Robertson to be mad at me. I might need his backing if I decide to run for President.