In the past when I've written about trip to the vet, it's been about my chiweenie, Bailey.
There was the time he wouldn't stop licking his paws, as if he was a college co-ed and his paws were tequila.
And there was the time when he had a mysterious back ailment that caused him to hide underneath my bed and shriek like Republicans at the mention of gay marriage.
But this time, the sick puppy is Leo. Leo is Capricorn's chihuahua, about 5 years old. He and Bailey have become best friends and possibly gay lovers, if all the butt sniffing and come hither glances are any indication.
Last week, Leo starting scratching his ear, leading Capricorn to believe he had ear mites. She tried some over the counter medication, which only made the problem worse. So there was no avoiding it. Leo had to go to the vet.
Since I had time this morning, I took him to the appointment. If I look dainty carrying in my 11-pound chiweenie, just think how I look carrying in a 5-pound chihuahua. I might as well start butt sniffing.
The veterinary center had been remodeled since I had last gone (which I surely would pay for in some manner when the bill came). On a giant flat screen TV behind the receptionist, Cesar Milan, even on mute, reminded me I'm not being a good pack leader and should lower my head in shame. You say Dog Whisperer, I say Human Humiliator.
Soon, Leo and I went into a room, where he got the ol' rectal thermometer (unlike Bailey, his eyes didn't pop out like a Troll doll). He got weighed: 4.8 pounds, smaller than most cats. All that yo-yo dieting is really getting to you, Leo.
As a vet about my age and ostensibly much better paid than I checked out Leo's ear, she said he likely had a yeast infection. How embarrassing, Leo. Now they're gonna have to give you Monistat. Oh, not that type of yeast infection? Should I put him in the oven to rise?
As it turns out, he just needs some medicated drops and antibiotics, which I could have told them without the $20 test but hey, what do I know, I got shamed by a reality television dog whisperer.
The vet and her assistant left the room. That gave me time to look at all the literature around the room, reminding me of how many tests/preventive medications I wasn't nice enough to give to my dogs. God help a paranoid pet owner. The sole purpose of all that stuff is to make sure you think your dog will become rabid at any moment and eat your flesh off unless you get him vaccinated. And once you're done with that, you better get heartworm prevention or you'll get an $800 bill for heartworm treatment, plus get shamed again. Curiously, none of the signs mentioned anything about erectile dysfunction, which I'm sure must affect millions of dogs everywhere. Except Bailey. And he's fixed.
I was also curious about the magazine selection. What are they trying to say about Gwen Stefani? And is the idea here no guys ever take their pets to the vet? Shouldn't there be a Playboy? At least we could stare at Bunnies.*
After Leo tried fiercely not to get drops in his ear, what with having been ear raped minutes earlier as they cleaned everything out, we were all done.
The bill came to about $150. Having a pet is like having a kid. It's not like you can say, "You know what... I think I'll just let the little guy suffer. I'd rather not have to spend $150. There's a sale at Banana Republic" Then you're a monster, and ripe for an appearance on Maury Povich. (Show title: Shocking Pet Owners Refuse To Pay Vet; Neighbors, Family and baby Jesus appalled)
Leo's ear seems to be doing better. That's good. Because otherwise I was just going to Van Gogh that sucker.
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