Imagine that you’ve been told your blood is too sweet. Can that possibly be a disapprobation? Would not women from miles around drop their iPads and come to lick my freshly-shaven face in hopes of catching a sugary droplet? The question answers itself, of course. If they would, then they would have. For I haven’t been informed of a new and exciting proposition but an existing condition. And the number of women who have licked my cheek recently can be counted on the finger of one finger. I’m referring to Miss Bernice, of course, to whom I will continue to refer as female, despite the evidence of some DVM’s own eyes, my manhood being more important than hers. So now I must descend into the world of counting and measuring and sampling things it had never occurred to me to count, measure and sample. I’ve become a research lab of my self. And frankly, it’s not the most intriguing subject in the world. A lifetime of excess is demanding to balance the accounts. The flatulent chickens of gluttony have come home to roost. And now I must bend my great woolly head to pricking and sampling.