This morning, I was in a huge flaming hurry and managed to slice my kneecap open as I did a tidy-up shave. It didn't hurt that much, but it bled profusely. Still, I didn't pause to bandage it. There was no time. I had to get my dog to the vet.
I wouldn't have been in quite such a rush if I hadn't spent the night before sleeping on the floor, snuggled up in a pile of blankets with Miss Molly the Wonder Pup, the furry love of my life since 1999. Periodically through the night, I woke up and rolled over to check on her, sometimes offering her her water bowl and others, running to fetch her meds to help her get comfortable enough to fall back asleep.
The end result was that when my alarm clock began screeching from its temporary new home on the arm of my couch, I found myself casting about futilely for something heavy to throw at it. As nothing came to hand, I settled for rocking up and smacking the buttons on the top. Having slain the beast, I went back to sleep for a bit.
The second time the alarm started bleating, I barely let it make a peep before I smacked it again and settled back down, questing eagerly after unconsciousness again. Let it never be said that I'm not a quick study.
Then a snout nudged my arm, and I looked over into muzzy brown eyes.
"I don't know what you're in such a hurry for," I told Molly. "They're going to stick a scope up your lady bits."
She stared at me soulfully and gave a pleading lick.
I sighed and rocked back up again, turning off the alarm clock and starting to get ready to go.
This is not the sort of face you say "no" to.
A charge through the fray of Tallahassee traffic brought us, in short order, to the fancy new vet my old vet referred me to. It lies hidden in the woods on a weird twisty road you can only reach if you are pure of heart or have a functional GPS. For me, I had to rely on the former, because I haven't updated the maps in my GPS since sometime in 2009. Consequently, when I asked it to lead me to the new vet's office yesterday, it took me repeatedly and insistently to a funeral home.
"Not funny, ass hat," I told the GPS lady. Luckily, I got the directions all sorted out in a quick phone call. By comparison, today's trip was smooth sailing, aside from the odd old lady putzing along in the left lane going 15 mph under the posted speed limit with her right blinker on.
The hard part was picking up my 51-pound dog and carrying her from the car into the vet's office. It's not so much her weight. I have dealt with lugging her up and down the stairs off and on for the past month, and that doesn't bother me much. It's the change in her demeanor as I carry her. Molly is not a fan of being hauled around like luggage. On a typical day, if subjected to such an indignity, she goes rigid in my arms, both front paws splayed out as if braced for impact and her back end all a-swivel when I start to set her down.
This skeptical look was probably her Spidey senses a-tingle with the
notion that someday, somehow, I would blog about her vagina.
However, since our little scare yesterday, in which her hoo-ha started dripping blood and I ended up rushing her in a frenzy to the vet, she's been resigned. I pick her up, and I know that she still hates it, but she lays limply in my arms like a sack of potatoes, her feet dangling beneath her. Today, when I put her down in the vet's parking lot for a minute, she was still not quite sure how to use her paws. Looking dazed and uncomfortable, she put her front feet out in front of her at awkward angles, her hips twisted slightly such that her weight rested on one back leg.
Given the number of people who started cooing with sympathy as I carried her into the vet, though, I began to suspect she was playing an angle. Never let it be said that I have a dumb dog.
Never let it be said that I have a bad dog, either, though. In the past few days, she's had fingers, thermometers, and scopes jammed in her orifices. Despite being in pain and being manhandled by strangers, never once did the faintest murmur of protest escaped her. There was no growling, no curl of the lip. Nothing but soulful eyes and a tucked tail.
"She's such a sweet girl," everyone kept saying.
No need to tell me that. I've known it for nearly 14 years now.
At the end of the day's procedure, I learned that we still don't know what's going on and we won't until the results come back from the lab. But after a guided video tour of my dog's insides, I began to feel cautiously optimistic for the first time since this all started. The doc says it may not be cancer, and that if it's cancer, it may not be malignant. He expedited the processing of her labs, and we expect to find out what's going on on Friday morning.
In the meantime, Molly was looking more alert already as we left the vet's office. She walked out under her own steam and even tried to take advantage of my sympathy by pulling me through the flowerbeds on an impromptu walk. Though I carried her up the stairs to get into my apartment, she seemed more interested in following me around like she usually does, always with the hope in her doggy heart that whatever I'm doing will involve dropped food.
Through thick and thin, blonde and brunette, Molly has been my best pal.
We were both in better spirits by the time I sat cross-legged on the carpet beside her to pet her ears and eat my lunch. I was relieved to see her looking more like her old self, and she was making soft whistling noises through her nose as I petted her- her happy sound.
It wasn't until I was sitting there, watching cartoons and petting my dog, that I finally remembered cutting my knee that morning. Finishing my sandwich, I dusted the crumbs from my hands and pulled up my pants leg to inspect the damage. It really wasn't that deep, but there was blood all across my knee. I probably should've at least put a Band-aid on it.
Smelling the blood, Molly raised her head to inspect the cut. And then my dog, who had spent the past 24 hours in varying levels of pain, began to tenderly lick my wound clean.
Just in case I ever wonder if it's worth it (and honestly, I never do), it's moments like this that remind me that a friend this devoted is worth paying any price for. And God willing, I will see her well enough to run laps around my living room again.
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