Some Days Are Just Like That

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. I came back, tried to sleep for twenty more precious minutes, then called the vet’s office right at 8:00. Or tried to. I 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 was 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—we got called 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, blessing of blessings, 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 have 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 had 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-dog demolition crew. 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. Of course!

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 ten 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 daughter-in-law, 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 another vacation from her vacation.

So yeah—some days are just like that. You wake up thinking, “I’ve got this day, 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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