My kids are away for the week, which typically lessens the
amount of fires to put out on any given day. But yesterday was the WORST EVER.
Both my dogs were to go in to be fixed, which, as you know,
is routine and it happens every day and it’s nothing to worry about. There are
two elements here that go into why this couldn’t just be an easy trip down the
road to the vet’s office.
Firstly, Shucks like to run away, and he’s very fast. As we’ve
discussed in previous posts devoted to this dog and his love for chickens, he cares
very little about what I have to say on the matter. Aside from this fact, he is
the best dog I have ever had, and he loves me muches, which is important later
in the story.
Éowyn is a Great Dane, which is a Very Large Dog. At just a
few months old, she stands at my waist and weighs over 60 pounds. At least 55 pounds of that weight is her
mouth, which she uses as a defense against anything from wearing a collar to
Shucks’ poor, drool-covered ears, by merely holding it open while producing
massive quantities of slobber.
So, I leash the dogs and walk to the gate. Éowyn likes to
play leapfrog on the leash, jumping sideways over Shucks and tangling
everything up until we all fall over. Shucks and I, not being interested in
this game today, were targeted with the Open Mouth of Doom resulting in Shucks’
leash being pulled out of my hand. He looked at me as if to say, “I know. I know. But SEE YA!” And off he went.
I decided to drive around and look for him, but Éowyn,
wanting to see what mischief Shucks could get into, refused to get in the
truck. After about twenty minutes of coaxing on my part and balking on her
part, I picked her up, shoved her in, and started the truck. I was lucky that
Shucks knew he was to go on a Super Fun Car Ride, so he came bounding back home
when he heard it start.
So I finally get both dogs to the clinic, wait in a room for
awhile, and it’s time for them to go to the back and for me to leave. The both
walked to me and looked into my eyes. Shucks, who loves me so much, said, “I
love you so much.” (With his eyes; he can’t really talk, yo.) Éowyn said, “Why
are you paying attention to him? Let me put my mouth on something.” And I start
crying like a baby and run out of the office.
Fast forward a bit, I had a dental appointment in the
afternoon. I more nervous about the dogs’ surgeries than was at all appropriate
and I hate the dentist. I sat in a
waiting room for 30 minutes, and the hygienist came in – brushing her teeth – strolling around the waiting room chatting
with the other patient about how she may as well buy her jeans from Target, but
she always buys $400 jeans and just can’t bring herself to shop at Target. That
annoyed me on two levels: One, because I have a thing about brushing teeth. I
don’t like to watch people brush their teeth and I hate when people watch me.
GROSS. Two, I can’t even afford Target jeans, so whatever.
During the three hours I was being tortured by various
employees at this office, I came to realize that people in the dental
profession must be on the highest level of narcissism. (If that describes you,
please don’t be offended. I can’t really tell you why you shouldn’t be
offended, but it works if I just tell you not to be, correct? U mad, bro? We’re
cool, right?) Back in the old days, this type of person would pick a nation to
rule or something that put them in a position to force people to hang on their
every word and put those same people through unspeakable pains in a dungeon
somewhere. Because torture and stuff is mostly outlawed these days (I know),
these people turned to dentistry.
My dentist is fairly good at talking while inflicting pain,
but the hygienist (we’ve established I already didn’t like her, right?) was
another story.
Her: Open! I’m going to shove some stuff in your mouth and
give you three shots. Slowly.
Me: :::complies:::
Her: So…Director of Social Media? What does THAT mean?
Me: Arhghghkkkkfhghghgh
And so on. For a couple hours.
When I was allowed up from the chair, half my face was
swollen and numb, and the other half was in dire pain. They chose that time to
charge me $370 more than they had promised me this would cost. Unable to argue,
I paid and left.
I cried all the way to the vet because I don’t even know…everything
hurt.
I waited an hour at the vet to pick up my dogs, because the
lady said that the doctor needed to speak with me about the blood tests they
had done.
When a doctor needs to speak with you about blood tests, the
correct response is to FREAK OUT. So I sat next to a sobbing woman and her sick
dog, and freaked out for both of us.
They put me in a room and dropped my dogs off with me.
Shucks looked at me and said, “I still love you SO MUCH, even though whatever
happened to me back there was NOT COOL. Let’s both agree to never speak of this
again.” Éowyn slobbered all over my jeans. I had reached the limit of what I
could endure. I mean uncontrollable, ugly, my-life-is-over sobbing, just as the
doctor walked in.
He gave me a deer in the headlights look, glanced back at
the door he just walked through like he was planning an escape, and asked, “Are
you okay? Are the dogs all right?”
I’m in total toddler-style meltdown at this point, so I sob,
“Aren’t youuuuu supposed to tell meeeeee that?”
He said they were fine, blood tests were normal, and I could
leave.
Thanks, man.
Me and the dogs came home and chose our respective places on
the couch where we took turns crying and comforting each other until my
brother-in-law brought me mashed potatoes which turned things around for me. I
gave the dogs the mac and cheese I couldn’t eat, and they felt all better, too.
Southern, bad for you, comfort food can fix anything, is my
point.
