Adventures in Loneliness - Part 5

Today we had a minor emergency.

Tiny lad Scruffy had an icky awful tick on him last week that I bravely removed with tweezers. I may have shrieked a bit taking it to the toilet to flush it away to its watery grave. Otherwise, I was the picture of stoicism.

Last night, two of my favorites came over. We had a very girly, very fun evening planned. While the first half of the evening (thankfully the one including dinner) was lovely, the second half got a little dicey.

Melissa was lovingly caressing the Scruffmeister when she suddenly froze, mid-stroke, looked up at me and said, "I think Scruffy has a tick." With bravery unlike any I have ever seen before, and most definitely have never known, Melissa plucked the tiny bugger out with her own fingernail. What a woman.

As we planned to resume our girly plans for the evening, Melissa again warmly embraced Señor Scruffy. Then I heard it.

"Uh oh."

Another tick. Can you believe it? In my defense, they were quite a bit smaller and - ok I have no excuse. I am officially Worst Dog Owner Ever. At least Worst Tick Discerner/Disposer. It's all a little hazy, but I'm pretty sure this happened one more time, then we decided to take a look at Scruffer's tail, which he'd been biting at a bit the last couple days.

Uh Oh.

It took me corraling poor Scruffy's head while Suz tried to stabilize his hindquarters and Melissa removing tufts of fur - tweezers in hand - to finally ascertain that something was definitely wrong with the poor little guy's tail. It appeared something had burrowed in.

Yikes.

Fast forward through a night of fitful sleep on the couch, and my eyes popping open at two minutes to 7:00. In the morning. (Those of you who know me know - this never happens.) Williamson County Animal Hospital - the place to which Tony & Melissa have entrusted their sweet Harriette in the past - opens at 7:30 Saturday mornings. So up we got and out we went.

We waited over an hour. During our wait, a lady walked in with an old dog in her arms. Speaking to the ladies behind the counter in hushed tones, she quickly made her way back outside. One of the nice vet assistants behind the counter announced to us in the waiting room that the lady needed to put her dog down, so they were going to let her cut to the front of the line. Apparently, that's standard protocol.

I'm glad it is. I can't imagine sitting in that cold sterile waiting room for an hour or longer, slowly counting the minutes, dreading the unknown moment when they call you in to say your final goodbyes to your beloved furry friend.

I squeezed Scruffy a little tighter. And prayed he would survive the insistent attack on his poor painful tail.

It got a little dramatic.

A tear or two may have been shed I don't remember.

Valiant Scruffy seemed utterly unfazed.
Finally, the same nice lady from behind the counter called Scruffy's name. During our meeting with the kindly vet (who continually called me ma'am. Gosh, I love the South. And gosh, that makes me feel old.), the vet tried to examine the Scruffster's tail and it obviously hurt like a mother, and despite my holding him back, he snapped at the nice man. Who didn't flinch. I, on the other hand, turned into a frazzled mess. Immediately, I apologized and began explaining that Scruffy never ever ever bites, and that he must be in a lot of pain and did I mention I'm sorry? Calmly, the vet said he was going to take him in the back so they could restrain him and take care of him - he didn't want me to have to be the bad guy. He scooped Scruff up in his arms, and in two seconds, they disappeared.

I instantly dissolved into tears.

(Sheesh. How will I ever handle having children?)

Shortly after their retreat into the inner workings of the animal hospital (a place I'd honestly rather not ever visit), the vet returned with my happy pup, looking none the worse for wear.

Neither of them.

For the record, it was not ticks. He also does not have fleas. My heart swelled a little as I stopped mentally chastising myself for being an unfit puppy-mother, as the vet explained that something had irritated my buddy's tail at some point, and since then he'd begun chewing it obssessive compulsively (no idea where he gets that) and it had turned into a pretty hefty wound. A cortisone shot and some antibiotics should do the trick.

However. If he doesn't leave it alone after 24 hours, I will be forced to make him wear the special dog lampshade apparatus that keeps him from being able to lick or bite his nether regions. It also secures him eternal passage on the short bus.

I'm crossing my fingers that he'll just leave it alone.

With a lighter step (and a significantly lighter wallet), I left with a couple medications in hand and my slightly traumatized dog in tow.

We hopped in the car, and over his canine features came something I can only believe was calm relief.
And we headed home.

Please Note: I generally believe that my overly emotional state today arises from the fact that I am missing Mr. Handsome something fierce, as well as from the terrible experience of worrying about and trying to help our sweet mutt all by my lonesome.

Generally, I believe that.