Humans have it so easy, what with their big, spacious, uncovered ears.

Poor me.  A few days ago, an overwhelming itch invaded my ear.  I scratched and scratched, until I felt my skin go raw.  But this was no ordinary itch.

Soon, I noticed huge globs of dark ear wax on my paw after scratching.  It carried a sweet, pungent smell.

My Two-Legged Pets took notice and, devoid of any ideas, I stared at them expectantly -- willing them to know what my body was doing.

One vet trip later, we discovered that I have -- wait for it -- a yeast infection in my ear.

Yes.  Yeast.

I have transformed into a sexually promiscuous middle-aged woman.

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I've experienced a change of pace as of late.  The pain continues to come and go in spurts, so I find myself in a constant struggle to either control it or ignore it.

Perhaps there's been a change in weather – living in the Southwest, sometimes it's difficult to tell exactly when "summer" ends and "fall" (if we even have one) begins.  But a cool breeze has about recently.

I find myself lounging by the patio door, soaking up the sun's heat.  My pets have noticed my preferred spot of choice, moving my water bowl next to my kitchen mat.

I'm not much in the mood to complain this week.  I'm having too much fun lying here.

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I can get hairy.  My two-legged pets take me the infernal grooming place every 32 meals or so, where way-too-perky humans mutilate my nails, soak me to the bone, and place me inside a deafening wind tunnel.

Despite having received a near full-body buzz cut on these trips (except for my voluminous tail ... why do they think that's attractive?  It's like I have a Goodyear blimp trailing me everywhere!), my pets forget to take advantage of the situation and apply my anti-flea and tick topical agent.  They wait and get it stuck in my fur -- all smelly and goopy.  (And then THEY want to complain about "Creak's odor."  Really.)

Apparently my constant scratching of myself has paid off.  The Two-Leggers noticed their anti-vermin solution was anything but, and have now switched me to chewable tablets.  (They taste like Flintstones vitamins.)

Here's hoping this human answer works.  (Though, remember it is humans who place dogs in bags ... to carry them around.  Sanity?)

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So I'm getting older.  And have to go to the bathroom more often.

Deal.

The endless love I shower upon you, my Two-Leggeds, should more than make up for a quick bathroom respite here and there.

Recently my pets took me to visit others related to them -- who, I claim by default as my pets, too.  I enjoy seeing them.  They take pity on my haggard, osteoarthritis-riddled knees and slide me honey ham beneath the table.  (My pets work tirelessly to hide their food from me.  Like my knees could get any worse.)

But the car ride over irks me.  Something about the canned sounds, the lack of space, and the constant vibrations ... I step out of the car for a bathroom break and find my already sore knees unable to function.  Dizziness invariably ensues.

I thought humans were supposed to be the most brilliant creatures on earth.  But, after all this time, they still haven't figured out how to fix my knees, nor fly their cars -- thus achieving a smoother trip?

I guess I have to deal.

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Sometimes it seems the doctor just isn't listening.

I try and I try to convey to him that my knee pain has been increasing as of late.  I whimper when he's massaging the joints.  I give him my sad puppy dog eyes when he asks how I'm feeling.  I gently pat his hands whenever he tries to walk away -- reminding him I appreciate his attentive care.

And then he says to my two-legged pets, "Creak seems fine.  Pain seems minimal.  I recommend he just gets his rest and drinks his water and everything should be kept in check."

It's as if he hasn't been listening to me at all.

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