I spent every summer between college semesters working for a vet. That was eons ago, but I still have fond memories of the people and animals I worked with.*
And, I still fancy myself capable of handling animals, even those with a stubborn streak.
Enter Doug. Dang dog still hasn't learned that 1) you live in a house now 2) food is provided twice a day 3) you don't have to bark at ever leaf that passes by to continue getting the twice daily rations.
A wee example of this is his obsession with acorns.
This must be a bumper year for the darn nut because they litter every part of our backyard, from the bottom of the pool all the way to the driveway. Right now, were you to decide a little nap on the hammock would be a good idea you might suffer a concussion from all the little acorn bombs falling all around.
Enter Doug, part deuce. Apparently, acorns were a staple of his diet when he was dog-homeless. On any given day, I'll find him snarfing on a tasty little appetizer of "raw acorn caps and meat". Very Japanese, mind you, but not a really great idea.
It seems that acorns, in certain quantities, can actually kill a dog. Or at least cause them to have diarrhea and vomiting.
Then there's the enviable way of kicking the doggie-bucket if you really ingest too much: renal failure.
Needless to say, I give him a good piece of my mind when I find him chewing the free squirrel food. But, he continues on, in hopes that, maybe someday, he'll find the one, the creme de la creme of acorns, that actually tastes like squirrel guts.
So far, the only thing this practice has yielded is a badly busted lip. Which tonight, given my prodigious history of practicing vet skills three months of the year for four years, I decided I would doctor.
Have I mentioned that two-squares-a-day has rendered Doug, um, portly? Caused him to become "big boned"?
Crap. He's just fat. Period.**
So, when I needed to get a better look at that lip and tried to turn him over like a newborn baby? He was having NONE.OF.THAT.
He wiggled and squirmed until I saw the only reasonable way to clean that wound with peroxide was to put him in Mike's sink.***
He acted like my kids when I use peroxide. Their initial reaction? Not bad, Mom. Three seconds in? FIRE. YOU JUST PUT FIRE ON MY OPEN WOUND. WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?
Doug freaked. So, when I had to leave him in the sink to get the actual antibiotic?**** He jumped down and ran off. As fast as his bloated body would go.
Now that did nothing but inspire me. How would his lip heal if he didn't have any antibiotic on it? I don't kiss him on the lips, but a lip less dog just sounds disgusting. Not on my watch, kiddo.
So, I went looking for him. And he was coming at me, all repentant, wagging his tail like "MOM? Sorry I left you. I just don't like you trying to burn my lips off. Can't we pass on doing that again for, like, FOREVER?"
Me? I sat down, let him climb on my lap, and grabbed his face, all vet-style. Like I meant it.
He? Didn't like that ONE BIT. The squirming was worse than an earth worm on concrete in Death Valley in August.
So, I resorted to real vet-style tactics. I sat on his butt. Literally. Straddling the dog. Who was doing his best "I'm going to Houdini out of this by backing out between her legs. I'm small. I'm really small. She has no chance."
The net result of all of this? TONS of squirming, two failed attempts at escape, and one topical administration of antibiotic on Doug's lip.
Which he, immediately, licked off. And then used his tongue to redistribute onto my chin.
Doug: one. Me: zip.
I found him in the dining room, after that, about to squat and take a little "load off". When he saw me and realized "She caught me about to exact my revenge!", he scampered to the back door. Which I opened and gently pushed him out of.
I ga-ran-tee that dog not only relived himself, but also had a little late night acorn snackage.
I swear, if I find him hurling on my floors later tonight, I'm not going to have any mercy. I'm only going to give him ONE biscuit tomorrow.
That'll teach him!
*Especially that calf I helped birth in the rain. Whoa.
**And, I fear, it's my fault for not being able to resist his cute little face and giving him people treats every time he looks at me....
***He'll never know, poor dear, because he's in bed with a migraine. Unless he reads this post or wonders where the hair in the sink came from.
****Remember, I deal with ADD. Planning ahead? Not in the cards.