Mom has a real vendetta against me. I can tell. First she commits me to the veterinary hospital for a week. Now she has this strange, bulgy plastic bag with numbers down the side. On the bottom of the bag is a long plastic tube with some sort of on-off switch. The worst part is on the end of the tube: a sharp point that Mom insists on sticking between my shoulders when I least expect it. Struggling does not seem to help. If Mom would just pick one place and a regular time, I might be able to hide and escape the torture. She tells me that the vet wants me to “get fluids” twice a week–a likely story. NOT!