May 21, 2007

-- Toney and I took Andy to the vet on Friday. My wife insisted I go this time, so I could see how “bad” our dog acts at the doctor’s office. I’d heard wild tales of barking, snarling, shaking, and power-shitting atop elevated examination tables. And Toney wanted to prove they weren’t exaggerated.

A full-time job insulates me from this type of thing, but now I’m taking the kids to dentist appointments, and the whole nine yards. Three months ago I didn’t know where any of those offices were even located, and here I am today making small talk with receptionists like we’re old buddies... To tell you the truth, I don’t much care for it.

Anyway, it was time for Andy’s yearly checkup, and I was required to go. He jumped into my car, just as happy as crap, not having any idea what horrors awaited him. Toney, of course, had to navigate and tell me where to drive, and the place is located on a street I didn’t even know existed. 

From what I could tell, it’s a vet’s office/daycare center hybrid. So, it’s toddlers and diseased animals... Pass the beer nuts. 

I attached the leash to Andy’s collar, and he bounded out of my Camry with a spring in his step and a smile on his snout. He still didn’t know where we were. But when we got up to the door, and he took a reading with his constantly-working nostrils, the emergency brake was thrown. All four of his legs locked into position, and I had to practically drag him into the building.   

The woman at the desk told us to have a seat in the waiting room, and we’d be called shortly. 

By now Andy was shaking like Janet Reno on a hayride, and prancing around on his tiptoes. I took a look at the chairs in that room, and most were covered, covered, in dog or cat hair, so I decided to just stand. Andy finally sat on my feet and shuddered visibly. I told him he’d better not open the bomb bay doors, or I’d auction him off on eBay.

The receptionist eventually called us back to the exam room, and our dog barked at her. Like a Doberman at a junkyard. But the woman had apparently heard it all before, and didn’t even react to Andy’s diatribe. I had to pull him down a linoleum hallway to the room, and it was as if our family pet was constructed of some sort of heavy plaster.

Once inside Andy never stopped moving. He walked ‘round and ‘round, completely stressed-out, and I was certain it was only a matter of time before we’d all be treated to the majesty of a fecal fountain. I just hoped I’d be outside the shot pattern when it went off.

A teenage girl wearing scrubs came into the room, and forced Andy onto a scale. He weighs 40 pounds, which is apparently too much. I guess the spaghetti feeds are catching up to him? I don’t know, but they told us he should weigh around 32. And they looked directly at me when they said “no table foods!” Why me?? What’s that all about?

The doctor finally came into the room, and he was wearing a whimsical novelty tie. Not a fan. He checked Andy’s chart, and I guess there was a note in there about him trying to bite people who sport retarded neckwear, and he handed us a muzzle and asked us to put it on our poor, frightened doggie.

Here’s a pic I snapped with my cell phone. Is that not sad? Man, that just breaks my big sluggish heart…

I lifted Andy onto the examination table, careful to “aim” his ass away from me, and at the doctor when possible. The doc shined a flashlight into our dog’s eyes and ears, and suddenly it smelled like Fisherman’s Wharf in there. I’m not kidding, it was full-on fish market in that place. What in the hell?!

“Oh, he’s compressed his anal gland!” the doctor shouted. And he began wiping some kind of fluid off the wall with a Kleenex. He went on to explain that dogs have a gland “back near their anus” which they compress when nervous. This reportedly sends a spray of some sort of fishy mist into the air, and scares off predators. Or whatever. 

I’d never heard of such a thing in my entire life, and I’m 44. Was this guy pulling my leg? What in the sweet ‘n’ sour hell?! A mist-emitting anal gland? What do you know about this? Did I get Punk’d by a man in a Garfield tie? I need closure, dammit.

Andy received a distemper shot, which he apparently didn’t even feel, and we had to buy something like $150 worth of flea and heartworm medicine. Then it was over.

Before we left, Toney asked about grooming. Andy is in desperate need of some maintenance, but he gets so stressed great clumps of hair fall out. So we don’t subject him to it.

But it’s past the point of no return now, and we’re going to have to turn him over to a professional soon. The doctor nodded knowingly, and gave us a pack of ten sedatives. He told us to give Andy one pill ninety minutes before his hair appointment, “to take the edge off.” Or, if we prefer, we could give him two, to make him “like a drunken sailor.”

When we got home Toney called a groomer near our house, and made an appointment for Wednesday. During the middle of the day... When she’s at work, and I’m at home…

Well, that’s simply excellent.

-- Before I call it a day here, I’d like to alert you to some Big Media Attention we’ve received recently. 

Here’s a small piece from the latest issue of Rolling Stone, the one with Keith Richards and Johnny Depp on the cover. Pretty cool. It’s always been a dream of mine to have a sandwich I ate for lunch appear in a national publication, and now it’s happened!

And Buck sent me this one, from the pages of the Scranton Times. I don’t remember sitting for the interview, but apparently I did. Good stuff.

Finally, this doesn’t have anything to do with me, but it makes me laugh. As does this.

I’ll see you guys tomorrow. 

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Last updated
01/17/12 12:12 PM

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