I've been to see the vet again today. Rachel says she's turning into Mrs Pumphrey and that I should be called Tricky Woo.
Anyway, I had to go, because of all the blood.
Somehow, during our walk/gallop/swim/lollop in the park today, I cut my toe in a way that "a flap has to be trimmed".
I don't know what that means, but I have to wear one of Rachel's old socks for now, fastened with duct tape.
We are going in the car again early tomorrow. Rachel says something nice will happen.
That's all I know. Sleep now.
Sedation and trimming of nasty ragged cut under her nail first thing tomorrow. The nice thing will indeed happen, but only at lunchtime when the Lovely Son arrives, just in time to come with me to collect her. As he did at Christmas.
Who knew owning a labrador would be so eventful? Or so vet-centric?