In which I meet my dog and we spend time together and with the local vet....
As I settled
down onto the bench in the vet’s waiting room Mr Rustypants was sniffing around
on the floor, head down, quite intent. So intent in fact that he banged his
head on the edge of the bench. The dull thud echoed around the room, and the
woman sat next to me with a cat in a box looked at me and said ‘Ooops... is he
a bit careless?’ Before answering her I thought back over the last six
months...
It should
have been obvious to me at the start really – the first time I met Mr
Rustypants he was in a large kennels, with his own space in a large enclosed
well maintained barn. He padded straight up to me, and when I knelt down to say
hallo, he just tucked his head under my arm. That was basically it and I knew
then that he’d got me, and I wasn’t going to leave without him. The breeder
said casually ‘he likes his ball’ and threw me a tennis ball. I took it and
looked at Mr Rustypants, who was basically imploring me to throw it for him, so
I made a half hearted attempt. The tennis ball skittered down the length of the
barn and Mr Rustypants set off in hot pursuit. The ball hit the door and
bounced back, but unfortunately the hound wasn’t quite that quick, or perhaps
he was too quick, because he came to a stop by simply hammering himself into
the door. Within a second or so he was off again racing for the ball, which he
got and brought back to me. I threw it again, and once again, he raced the
length of the barn, thumped into the door and came back. It should have been
obvious to me at that point – the god of the canines was looking down at me and
basically shouting ‘Look you moron – this dog has very little by the way of
brain and even less of self preservation, escape while you still can!’ However,
the soft brown eyes rendered me incapable of listening to any sense, and the
deed was done, the dog was mine.
Things went
very well. For a couple of days. Well, until I let him off the lead that is, at
which point he realised that he could run far and wide after a ball, without
bashing into any walls, doors or other annoying encumbrances. I took him up to
the meadows, which is a lovely open air space with lots of hills, grass, walks
and all sorts of doggy goodness, and the threw the ball for him. He was off
like a rocket, and this developed into a good game quite quickly. However, I
then made a mistake and threw the ball, which bounced downhill. The hairy arsed
muppet leapt for it, misjudged his leap and landed on one back leg. He yelped.
A lot. I dashed over and we both stood and looked at his passenger side back
leg, which was not quite at the angle it was when we went out. I looked at him,
he looked at me, and then picked up the tennis ball and stood there on three
legs. He was clearly expecting me to throw it again and had the look of a
footballer in pain in a cup final saying ‘it’s ok, I’ll run off the pain
gaffer’. I didn’t think that this was
wise, so we limped back to the car, while Mr Rustypants was reciting the bit
from Monty Python and the Holy Grail ‘Tis but a scratch. The leg is still
connected, I’ve had worse’ or words to that effect.
So we made our
first proper visit to the vets, or as I like to call it, ‘home’. We met Gareth,
who was soon to become our personal vet. You know how some people say ‘I’ll
talk to my lawyer’ or ‘See my accountant’? Well, I do the same thing, only with
me it’s along the lines of ‘I’ll have a chat to my vet about it’. Only in my
case, the vet costs a damn sight more than either a lawyer or accountant.
However, in we went, and the muppet did his ‘I’m a good dog I am, and this was
entirely an accident’ routine, and Gareth just bought it hook line and sinker.
After some deliberation he decided that he’d just strained a ligament. He’s a
good bloke is Gareth, but he does like to warn you about everything, so before
saying ‘Oh, it’s nothing, he’ll be alright in a few days’ he started by saying
‘Well, it could be an inflamed vetigulated ararythmic anterior cross muscular
injury that could cost you thousands if I have to operate’. It might not have
been those exact words you understand, though I distinctly remember the
‘thousands’ bit. It’s not the kind of thing you’re likely to forget really is
it? Anyway, short walks on the lead for a few days, well sorted. Between those
and the anti inflammatory pills we were sorted.
I should
also point out that I have a hatchback car, and Mr Rustypants sits in the back.
He likes this because he can look forward and bark at me, like the doggy
version of a backseat driver, but his advice is limited to ‘look out, there’s a
lamppost! Look out, there’s another lamppost! Mind that lamppost!’ with the
occasional whine when we drive past a particularly attractive Labrador. But I
digress – he jumps happily into the back of the car and sits upright with his
‘where are we going today?’ look. I always say ‘Sit down and mind your head’,
and he starts to sit down, while I shut the boot. Only he never actually makes
it all the way down, because he sits up again, resulting in his head hitting
the glass. However I try it, the same thing happens. I get him to sit, to lie,
whatever – up he pops, down comes the boot lid and *thump*. I think he likes
it, I swear to god.
Anyway, all
went well. For a week or so – heck, it might even have been an entire month,
but when I let him out of his crate one morning he was limping. Rather a lot,
and this didn’t sound or look good to me, and the ‘thousands’ conversation came
back to haunt me with the enthusiasm of a contraceptive seller at a dogging
convention. (I should point out that I don’t know if they have dogging
conventions, and if they do, I’m certainly not attending, even though I have a
dog. He’d probably get arrested for something or other.) Back we went to see
Gareth. ‘Hallo Mr Rustypants’ he said, with obvious pleasure at seeing my
hopeless hound again – either that or he was considering the size of my wallet.
It turned out that this time my canine klutz had damaged the digit on the same rear
passenger leg. I should explain at this point that when Mr Rustypants runs
after a ball and doesn’t have a door to slam into in order to help him stop, he
just spreads his back legs slightly apart and skids to a halt, chucking up more
dust and muck into the air than an enthusiastic Icelandic volcano. Some of this
mud got under the nail, it got infected and there we were, back on short leaded
walks. That’s leaded as in ‘collar and’ rather than ‘dirty great weight around
your neck dragging you down’, although thinking about it....
So,
antibiotics and anti inflammatories again. I think he was having so much anti
medicine I could have taken him to a protest march – any protest march and he’d
have been there at the front, barking along to ‘What do we want? Tennis balls!
When do we want them? Woof!’ A week later, back to see Gareth to check out the
digit, and all is well. Hurrah! Now, I know it’s my fault, and I shouldn’t have
said it, and I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth, but I
said ‘well, shan’t be seeing you until next year for his next jabs now’.
Next year?
Next year? Poor deluded fool – try 3 bloody days later if you please. Now, when
Mr Rustypants isn’t trying to injure himself, he’s attempting to drown. Most
dogs, when they go in the water keep their heads above it, but not mine, not Mr
‘Look dad, this is my impression of a submarine’. Head straight under, bubbles
coming up, the works. Not that he is drowning you understand, he just likes swimming
under water. Finally he emerged, shook himself dry and then looked at me as if
to say ‘Right, where were we? Oh yes, submarines’ and dived in again.
Consequently, his ears became home to the Tom Daley school of waterborne
bacteria. Gareth looked up as we came in and said brightly ‘Hallo Mr Rustypants!’.
Nice to see they were on first name terms I suppose. My dog did the whole
simpering ‘Ohhh Gareth, how lovely to see you again’ while he settled himself
nicely on the floor waiting for attention. Gareth looked at me and said ‘back
leg again is it?’ and I had to confess it was something different. By this
point I’m thinking that I should be employed by the British Veterinarians
Association to check out their members knowledge of the canine species. A quick
poke around and we’re sorted. Drops this time, but no short walks, just a limit
on submarine practice.
You’d think
that would be enough really wouldn’t you. I mean – that’s not a bad number of
visits to the vets in a short period of time. Believe me, we’re not even
started yet, because a couple of weeks later, open crate, out walks Mr Limpy
and we visit the vet again. Into the examining room we go and I swear that
Gareth has some sort of book going by now, because he cheerfully says ‘ears,
leg, or something different this time?’ I just mumble words that should not be
spoken and point at my dogs back leg again. It’s the toe once more, only this
time the nail has decided that being used as a brake is enough, and it’s
decided that it’s going to vacate its position and go off in search of fame and
fortune elsewhere. By now I’m able to just tell Gareth what he should prescribe
and for how long. I swear, it would be easier to have a top of the range Aston
Martin – certainly a damn sight cheaper to maintain. Gareth also agrees with me
and says ‘I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you need to bring him back
again’. It’s rather concerning that in a few short months I’ve gone from not
owning a dog to apprentice nurse.
We had a
great week. Really, we did. No damaged legs, no water, nothing. Just me, the
dog and a tennis ball. So why was his eye looking sore and weepy? Can’t mess
around with eyes, so back we go. Gareth beams, I glower and my dog leaps into
the examination room, lies down on his back, legs apart and looks up at his
best friend as if to say ‘what do you think of my kit then? Huh? Huh?’ Did I
mention he has no shame – he’ll have a go at anything he can get a leg over and
a few things he can’t. Remind me to tell you about the time he and another dog
called Barney went for it. It was a two dog gay orgy I tell you. I’d never seen
two male dogs trying the ‘69’ position before, but Barney and Mr Rustypants
were right at it. Honestly, I didn’t know where to look.
Anyway, back
to his eye. Gareth pops in some drops and we look at it under ultra violet
light. Now, this is going to sound grim, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. He’d
managed to puncture his eyeball, and had got an ulcer. Ok, it is as bad as it
sounds. He’d obviously gone after his tennis ball, launched himself into a thicket
without a second to think ‘hmm, is this really a good idea?’ and made good
friends with a bramble bush. Gareth went through the usual routine of vet speak
which once again included the words ‘thousands’ in there, but to be honest by
this time I was getting immune to it. More drops again. The stuff he’d put in
his eyes also dripped out of them as you’d expect, but also out of his nose.
Which was fine, except that it was bright lime green. It was at this point Mr
Rustypants looked up at me and said ‘Look dad, this is my impression of a
zombie dog from Radioactive City!’ That was fine, except a little old lady was
coming in with her small rat on a stick while me and Mr Zombie were going out –
I thought she was going to faint, and she would have, except that I manage to
yank Mr Rustypants’s lead before he could flip up on his back and wave his bits
at her.
Days passed.
Weeks even. We went for walks, a dip in the sea, tennis ball chases, the works.
A nice holiday was on the cards – down to Cornwall, for more long walks and
beaches and sea. I was very careful, and only threw the ball short distances,
kept him away from puddles, the works. Bee and I took him to see her mother,
and he stayed out in the back garden playing with two children. All together
now, what could possibly go wrong? Honestly – a Frisbee. A straight forward
Frisbee – round and plastic. Short of trying to gulp it down, what harm could
it do. Well, it was a bit old apparently, so when he chomped on it, it
splintered a bit, and he managed to stand on a sharp bit. Then he padded into
the house and we played ‘Look dad, this is my impression of a slaughterhouse!’.
Blood pouring everywhere. He wasn’t
bothered by this point, as I think the only thing in his mind was ‘Whee, a trip
to see Gareth, it’s been *ages*’.
An inch long
quite deep cut requires stitches. 6 of them in fact at about twenty quid a
stitch, plus extra for antibiotics. No anti- inflammatories this time, which
was a real shame, since I thought I’d take them instead – they might help with
my blood pressure. Blue bandage, really nice. ‘Don’t get it wet’ they said. I
explained the situation – Cornwall, walks, sea, beaches... ‘Don’t let him go
for walks’ they said. So I tried again; Cornwall, walks, sea and beaches.
Gareth looked sympathetic and simply said ‘Not great timing really is it?’Did I
mention Gareth has a dry sense of humour? My dog didn’t help at all – he just
sat there, thumping his tail, looking at Gareth before lying down again and
showing him his bits once again.
So, back
home to house arrest. Only out in the back garden briefly for business, then
back in again. Now, when you have an energetic dog, he’s got to be kept busy. I
usually do that with long walks, exercise and tennis balls. He does it by
stealing entire loaves of bread, chewing up socks and removing nice blue
bandages. Back to the vet for a new one. This time we see a nurse, but this
doesn’t stop my canine Casanova, not a bit of it. The nurse says to me ‘Can we
get him on his side?’ and no sooner are the words out of her mouth than he’s
flat on his back, legs akimbo, looking at the nurse with a look on his face of
‘So, what do you think of the puppy making kit then, huh? Huh?’ New bandage,
sorted, while the nurse and I make sure we don’t make eye contact. Two days
later, up he wanders, no bandage. So I put a sock on his leg, wrap it around
with micropore, then cover the sock in clingfilm, then cover all of that with
duct tape, and remarkably it works. For oh... well, until he gets bored with it
really, but by then, back we go to the vets for a checkup on how the stitches
are healing. Many more and he’s going to start his ‘look dad, this is my
imitation of Frankenstein’s dog’ act.
I sit down, Mr
Rustypants sniffs around and *thud* his head cracks into the bench, and I shake
my head, listening as the woman sitting next to me says ‘Yes, lovely lad, but
is he a bit careless?’ I simply smiled at his, stroked his head and said ‘Why,
whatever gave you that idea?’
