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.
Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm
Fun fact: Jack is
Roxie’s half-brother, which means they share DNA but not
personal space. On the ride home, Roxie gave him the full “older
sister” treatment—glared at him, huffed dramatically, and made it
crystal clear that sitting on her tail would be considered an act of
war. But after a long car ride and a post-arrival nap, she discovered
he plays tug-o-war like a pro and decided maybe he could stick around
as long as he remembers who’s boss. (Spoiler: it’s not me.)
