The missus and I picked up our dilapidated doggy from the animal hospital last night. She’s definitely perkier and more mobile than the bitch-skin rug she was resembling last week. My wife jokingly called it a “spa weekend” for the dog.
I laughed, until I looked at the treatment list. The mutt had IVs poked in her, pills stuffed down her, thermometers stuffed up her, blood drawn, urine sampled, cultures swabbed and her caboose regions digitally examined.
(They didn’t specify whether that meant “with a finger” or “with a computer”. Frankly, I don’t want to know.
Or to turn my back on a telescoping webcam any time soon.)
All I’m saying is, if that’s what happens during “spa weekends”, then I’m damned glad I’ve never been invited to one. Though it does make me very curious to know what my wife and her girlfriends are doing during their annual summer getaways together. I thought a seaweed facial would be the scariest thing happening there; it’s possible I was wrong. Way wrong.
Anyway, the mutt’s back home — and she brought half the pooch pharmacy back with her. The dog is literally on eight medications right now. Eight! And that’s not counting the kidney medicine, arthritis pills or fish oil tablets that we haven’t started her back on yet — or the pacemaker keeping her upright, or the spleen that was yanked out of her when she had cancer.
“I’m just waiting for her colon to explode; it’s basically the only organ we haven’t heard from yet.”
(Or for that matter, the ovaries they sucked out when we adopted her.
Come to think of it, the old girl’s got quite a bit of extra room in the abdominal cavity these days. We should use her as a bread warmer or something. Put the space to good use.)
So the pup’s had her heart worked on, her spleen taken out, her lungs are rattly, her eyes are going, her teeth are bad, and she’s currently taking meds targeting her kidneys, liver, biliary system, bladder, stomach and immune system. I’m just waiting for her colon to explode; it’s basically the only organ we haven’t heard from yet.
Well. Not clinically, at least.
All that said, the pooch seems to be in high spirits. Or at least as high as an equivalently-aged 93-year-old half-blind heart-assisted arthritic gummy old woman missing two organs and taking fourteen pills a day can be. If you ask me, it’s a miracle she can drag her furry ass off the couch in the morning to beg for treats.
And yet, there she was today, wagging away and sitting pretty for Snausages. What’s left of the dog is one hell of a trooper. We should all be so lucky some day.
(Not to be fed Snausages, of course. That’s not the kind of diet I’d want as a nonegenarian. Clearly.
If I make it that long, I’m planning on an exclusive diet of twice-fried bacon and anejo tequila. Most of my organs will probably be shot by then, too, so I don’t know how they’re going to get it into me. But they’ll find a way. Modern medicine always does.)
Anyway, it’s good to have the mutt back home, slobbering on the furniture and glomming scraps off the floor. Or the sidewalk. Or from the recycling bin on the curb.
(And she wonders why her insides are all horked up. Idiot.)
Hopefully, she’ll be down to a handful of meds by the end of the week, and back on her regular schedule of sleeping all day, barking for cheese and farting up and down the condo all night.
I’m telling you. We should all be so lucky.Permalink | No Comments