Ouch!

The dogs are now done helping me vacuum. In the back of my mind I always knew we'd come to grief one way or the other. I expected the vacuum to be the casualty - plastic can only hold up so long against the jaws of a French Bulldog.

I was wrong. The casualty was my left forefinger. Since I'm (mostly) left-handed, I'm feeling the pain. Dax, of course, didn't mean to bite me. She was attacking the vacuum attachment I was using on her dog bed (what else?) and my finger was in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time.

I'm not very good at blood. I can usually get through the immediate crisis fine, but then I sort of pass out. Once, when I was getting a medical test that involved injecting some dye through a vein in my hand, I announced that I was going to pass out. The nurse, who was trying to find a vein that wouldn't roll away from her, cheerily announced "No, you're not." I don't know what she said next. I woke up about five minutes later.

Anyway, I patched myself up, sat with my head between my knees for a couple of minutes, and went on with my chores. But now there's a gate in the doorway of the room I'm vacuuming. The furkids can "help" in other ways.