Some days start off sideways and just keep veering off into the
weeds. Yesterday was one of those days.
It
started out like any other charming day on the homestead—except my
dog was limping, my patience was already on empty, and I had no idea
I'd be involved in vehicular assault by 11 a.m.
Indy, our
refined, older Weimaraner (read: moody senior citizen in a dog suit),
started limping around like he’d just come back from a Civil War
reenactment. His front paw was swollen, and since he’d
already had a foot infection in the
other
paw, I figured we were just collecting them now, like vintage
coins or unpaid parking tickets.
Since I needed the truck to get him to the vet, I had to get up at
5:00 a.m. to take my grandson to work. Came back, tried to sleep for
twenty more precious minutes, then called the vet’s office right at
8:00. Or tried to. Got their cheerful little voicemail letting me
know their hours are “from 8 to 6!” I guess that means
for them,
not for us poor saps who call. I’ve learned not to leave a
message, because they apparently check voicemail sometime between now
and the Second Coming.
So I called every 15 minutes like a woman trying to win concert
tickets on a radio station. At 9:00, someone finally answered. “Sure,
bring him in at 9:45. We’ll squeeze you in.” Right. The vet’s
office is about 45 minutes away and I still hadn’t done the barn
chores. So I made a mad dash to feed everyone, break up two chicken
arguments, unhook the sheep from whatever weird thing they got into
this time,
and speed off like I was late for the Kentucky Derby.
I arrived at 9:55, breathless but victorious, only to spend the
next 40 minutes in a waiting room that felt like the seventh circle
of Dog Hell. A very enthusiastic teenage girl and her boyfriend sat
beside me. She was taking photos of every animal that walked in. Then
she showed me her ENTIRE pet photo album. I nodded politely like I
wasn’t wondering if chewing off my own arm would be less painful.
Her boyfriend didn’t say a word the whole time, which I think was a
survival tactic.
Enter: Junior.
Junior is a boxer puppy. A very
young,
very enthusiastic,
very untrained
boxer whose sole purpose in life seemed to be pulling his
owner's arm out of its socket. And he was a “Puppy” in the way a
wrecking ball is a “pendulum.” His owner, a woman who clearly
hadn’t planned for this level of chaos when she got dressed that
morning, was practically choking him in an attempt to keep him from
launching into orbit. “Junior! Junior, come here! Junior, don’t
eat that! Junior, get off the lady! Junior, that’s not a chew
toy—that’s her leg!”
And then came the cat.
The vet has a couple of resident
cats who clearly have a death wish,
and of course one decided this was the perfect moment to strut
through the hallway like a Vegas showgirl in front of a pack of
drooling, under-medicated dogs. Indy was frozen like a statue, his
whole body trembling with suppressed cat-homicide instincts. I could
feel the leash vibrating like it was attached to a jackhammer. He lay
at my feet looking calm on the outside, but inside he was screaming,
“LET ME AT HER!”
Finally—finally—the vet
called us in. After examining Indy (translation: poking his paw for
14 seconds while Indy vibrated like a tuning fork aimed at the cat
buffet), the vet nodded and said, “Yup. Probably cellulitis again.”
Then he added those magic words every dog owner dreads:
“Just keep him
quiet at home for a few days.”
Oh. Okay. Sure. Let me just explain that to my Weimaraner.
You know, the breed that was specifically designed to chase things
forever,
run on nuclear power, and
sleep only when dead. But
Indy was getting older and finally calming down.
I laughed. “What you see in here is not what he’s like at
home,” I told him, as Indy continued trembling with unspent rage at
the hallway cat and the scent of liver treats. “This whole vet
office experience has him juiced. The other dogs, the cat, who he
clearly sees as lunch, and the endless
treat potential
has his brain lit up like a pinball machine.”
“Honestly,” I said, “at home, he’s a couch potato. A
nap-loving, snore-barking, sofa-hogging lump of fur. He’s basically
a furry sack of potatoes with legs.”
The vet paused, looked at Indy, who was still trembling with
violent hope that the cat would make a fatal hallway detour, and then
turned to his assistant and said, dead serious: “That's
what my wife says about me. If I were a dog, I’d be this
dog.”
And just like that, I
didn’t need a vet degree to know
this
man gets it.
Because
honestly? I, too, aspire to be a dog that naps hard, snacks often,
and only gets riled up when there’s drama in the hallway.
After a total visit of 5
minutes, including the conversation with his assistant, we have this:
Diagnosis? Probably cellulitis. Again. Prescription? $58. Time
wasted? Somewhere between one and three years off my life expectancy.
I put Indy back in the truck and went back in to pay. While I was
standing there, Junior decided he hadn’t done enough damage yet and
tried to eat my shoe. While it was still on my foot. This dog was a
one-man demolition crew with zero regrets. I told the receptionist I
wasn’t sure if the dog wanted a snack or just had strong opinions
about footwear.
I paid the bill, headed out, and while backing out of my very
tight parking spot in a lot designed for lawnmowers, I
gently
(and by gently, I mean barely) clipped the fender of the gray
car next to me.
Not just any gray car. A gray car with a vanity plate that read
“BIG GUN”.
Of course it did.
I sighed, walked back into the waiting room (now a circus missing
only a guy in a top hat yelling “Behold the bearded lady!”) and
asked, “Who owns the gray car with the plate Big Gun?”
Guess who? Junior’s
mom.
At this point, the woman practically short-circuited. She was
leaving for Florida tomorrow
and now couldn’t remember how to breathe. I told her it was
a little dent, nothing major, and she still looked like she might
throw Junior at me and flee the scene.
Out she came, dragging Junior, who by this time looked like he’d
just done a marathon through a swamp—tongue hanging out, eyes wild,
drool flying. Her daughter, who looked to be about 10 and had braved
tagging along, trotted behind them like this was all just another
Tuesday.
While Junior the Wrecking Ball
tried to body-check the bumper off my truck, she called her insurance
company right there in the parking lot. I handed over all my
info, took photos of her car (thanks to my DIL, who’s trained me to
document every moment like I’m prepping for a congressional
hearing), and wished her the best.
My truck? Unscathed. Her fender? Slight dent, paint scuff. Her
dog? Still possessed. Her stress level? Catastrophic. Her vacation?
Probably going to need one from her vacation.
So yeah—some days are just like that. You wake up thinking “I’ll
handle this, no problem,” and by noon you’ve footed a vet bill,
been photo-bombed by a teenager, had your footwear attacked, and
accidentally assaulted a car named Big Gun. Next
time? I'm staying in bed... with Indy.

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