Things didn’t go well from the start on Croc’s last visit to the vet. My half mastiff, half lab doggy boy weighs one hundred twenty-five pounds and pulls like a tractor. Desperate to sniff a steaming pile of poop, he snatched me down the instant I stepped out of the truck. I sprawled elegantly across the pavement, knocking my nose on the curb. I’d foolishly worn a skirt, so passersby were treated the view of my new undies as I struggled to grab the leash and avoid a greater disaster. Fortunately, Croc was fascinated by a steaming pile of dog poop and hadn’t escaped into traffic. He pondered sampling it as I struggled to my feet, felt around to find my glasses in another mess, and staunched the flow of blood from my damaged knees. He showed no sympathy for me as we made our way in, choosing instead to attempt a friendship with a five pound Yorkie. The tiny beast and her dainty mom were traumatized at the slobbering beast dragging me toward them. My muddied, bloodied countenance did little to reassure the duo, despite my assertion he only wanted to play. Happily, the teeny dog was the original mean girl. She tore into Croc, teaching him a lot about little, mean dogs. The staff got us in a room straight away. No waiting!
Four hundred and fifty dollars later found us checking out. By now Croc was happily munching his cookie. Once again, I was sobered at the cost of well-dog care, despite having experienced it only six months before. Incidentally, I had another dog at home scheduled for a pricey visit the very next day. I definitely can’t handle both at once. I’d made that mistake once, a sad story for another day.
Mean Doggy and her mom stood between my behemoth and the exit. Meany snarled maniacally at us, terrifying Croc. I enjoyed that. Momma was crying to the staff, “Can you find a home for her. I’m sick and I can’t take care of her no more.” She sobbed piteously. It was heartbreaking so I hurried out. After I got Croc, also known as Meatball, in the truck, I called Bud.
“Can we adopt a Yorkie? A sick, old lady has to get rid of her.” I went back for the poor dog. Miss Ann, her mama was delighted she’d found a sucker and pulled out her tattered checkbook to pay for Meany’s visit.
On learning her bill was ninety dollars, Mama paled. “Can you hold this check till next Tuesday?”
“I’ll get it. She’s my responsibility now.” Miss Ann took my number. True to her promise, she visits Biscuit, the little Yorkie, pretty often. She’s even taken Biscuit home for a visit a couple of times. Biscuit always seems to enjoy their visits, but doesn’t mourn for her.
More to come.
Croc’s ears were itching with a black reside. I cleaned the interior as deeply as I dared. He loved it and leaned into me till I got the job done. The residue was black as tar. Buzzy liked the look of that, so he had to have prophylactic ear cleaning, too. Croc fell in love with the vet when she went in for a deep ear cleaning. It was likely a year or fungal infection. I didn’t know if I’d get him out of the office.. Sadly, Buzzy’s ears were fine, leaving him to get nothing but vaccines. The vet is a tiny woman, weighing far less tha Croc, who weighed 126.8 lbs. I was proud taking him in, thinking he’d lost weight. Last trip he weighed 122 lbs. I’d even had to take his collar down one inch since the last visit. I assured the doctor he’d really lost weight, but I don’t think she bought it, telling me, “Cut his food in half, again.” She gave me a judgmental look. I much prefer seeing her husband and partner vetinarian. He looks like he needs his rations cut in half. She was very pleased with Buzzy who’d lost four pounds since I cut Croc’s food by half. Buzzy doesn’t care if he eats.
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