Losing the Dog
What follows is a long saga about my stress in the past two days. Watch and learn:
So yes. Last night my parents were to be away at a wedding and spend the night at the hotel it was being held at, and I was to spend the night BY MYSELF for the first time in 17 years. Sad, I know. Anyway, I was at strokemybow's house until about 9:40, and as I was getting ready to go home, I heard the pop of firecrackers, which immediately lit the fire of foreboding in my heart; my dog Moxie is terrified of firecrackers. I get home courtesy of Lisa's dad, and the house is completely dark. Bad sign.
Get to the front door and open the door on the wagging, smiley face of Meggie, my other dog, but no Moxie. Ok, I think, he's probably hiding under a bed or in a closet or in a bathtub (it's happened before). I go through the house and look in all his hiding spots. No Moxie. I systematically go through them again. Twice. No Moxie. I run outside, call into the backyard, and discover the gate behind the garage has been left open.
Let me explain. There are three gates: one from the front part of the driveway to the section between the back door and the garage, one between that section and the backyard, and one at the end of a small passageway behind the garage which also leads to the backyard. There are a couple of gaps in the fence between our backyard and the apartment building next door, so until we fix the fence we just keep both back gates shut. Unfortunately, our gardeners ALWAYS open the gate behind the garage and never shut it. So I started to get a little worried when I saw it was open.
I wasn't TO panicked at that point: our dogs get "lost" occasionally only to be found standing on the porch waiting to be let inside the house--they're real homebodies. I took one of Moxie's squeaky toys and tried luring him with it, then I shook the treat bag (all the while, Meggie's trundling loudly at my heels while I'm straining to hear Moxie--'twas irksome), then I stood on the front porch and called. I could hear the neighbor's dog across the street, but not Moxie. I took the flashlight, and went to the apartment closest to the street next-door. and asked if she'd seen him. She said no, and this is the point when I was about to cry. She offered very nicely to drive me around the neighborhood to look for him, but I was still holding out hope he was close to home and declined. I wandered aimlessly around the front yard for a while (flipping out) and finally gave in and called Mom. Complete panic achieved.
She wasn't worried, until she realized I'd already looked in all the places she was thinking he was hiding. Finally she told me to go into the backyard and check in the basement; last time Meggie got out of the backyard, she ended up finding her way into the basement and getting stuck there, but I thought Moxie was smart enough not to do the same. I went back there anyway, calling him and trying to get the door open (it's one of those cinematic lifty-doors like you see in old Monster-movies, or the storm cellar in Wizard of Oz), when I hear a call from over the fence:
"Are you looking for your dog?"
*pause*
"...Yes."
"Is he a little white one?"
"YOU HAVE HIM??"
"Not exactly, he's wandering around back here..."
I told that angelic voice to wait right there, I was coming, and flew out of the yard, down the driveway, down the sidewalk and up the walkway through the apartment complex; Mox had wiggled into the back patio of the apartment building, and a gate had shut him in so he couldn't come when I called--why he didn't bark, I'll never know. But I opened the gate and he looked at me like "WHERE THE F*** WERE YOU???" I told Mom I had him, and she was grateful not to have to come home, and all was well. So I thought.
Partially in punishment, partially because he'd needed one for some time, and partially because his adventure out of the fence had dirtied him up even more, I fetched the dog forth into the bathtub after drying my face and scolding/hugging the life out of him, when I discovered a small hole in his skin near his right hindquarter. I couldn't really tell how bad it was-- it was damp, but it wasn't gushing or dripping blood or anything. Called mom back, and after much arguing about what should be done about it (I was loathe to bandage him--he'd chew it right off), we decided I'd bathe him and call her back when the situation was clearer.
So I bathed him. My. God. That dog was dirty. 'Twas the first time mud ever gathered on the bottom of my tub. He usually hates baths, and this was not much of an exception, but dammit, he needed it. He gets out, eventually, and after drying it becomes apparent that his injury is a small dime-sized tear in the skin, probably caused by wiggling through a jagged wire fence. Since the Neosporin label says to consult doctors before use on deep puncture wounds, I figured this somewhat qualified. I called mom, and reluctantly, she decided she'd better come home and check it out. It's about 10:30 by this time. This means Moxie and I have to wait in the bathroom until she gets back from Marina Del Rey, 'cos the moment the dog is let out, he shall rub himself against every rug and piece of furniture in order to feel dry. Not good for a dog with a somewhat major owie.
So an hour later and several pages more through Stephen King and Peter Straub's "Black House," Mom comes into the bathroom and inspects the small canine. It is decided that it's a good thing she came home, since it's the kind of cut that needs stitches and can't wait 'til tomorrow; since I have neither a car nor the funds to facilitate a visit to the emergency vet, her presence was very much necessary.
We swaddle the now-nervous nine-year-old dog in towels and pile him into the van, off on our merry way to the Emergency Vet. He's not happy--he knows that if he's wrapped in towels and driven off in the middle of the night without Meggie, something bad is happening. Soon he is crying and must be clutched and cuddled to calm him.
Cut to the vet's office. The receptionist takes us into the exam room; she looks tired but very capable--she checks him out and goes back to get the doctor. Twenty minutes later, the Doc comes in, looks at him for two seconds and is like "We'll have to put him under general anesthesia to stitch him up, and to do that we have to do complete bloodwork since he's an older dog and we don't have prior history. And he'll need an IV, and 42 injections and a blade of grass fetched from the porch of the Taj Mahal." Yikes. Doc leaves after this three-minute consultation, and soon sends in a Vet Tech, who, poor guy, must break the news that the whole shebang will cost $1,042.
Dude.
But the guy knows this is bogus and outrageous, and assures us that it would be a better and far cheaper option to give him an antibiotic shot that night and take him to our normal vet first thing in the morning. Which we agree to. Moxie is all to pleased to get out of there and escape with no less than a shot.
We get back into the office to pay the $120 or so for the shot and the "examination," and the groovy receptionist assures us under her breath that we made the right choice. She goes on to tell us that when SHE wrote the estimate, it was much cheaper and the Doctor pumped it up, calling Mox's little boo-boo a "major laceration." She advised us to bandage him with a gauze pad and a strip of old T-shirt, which we had handy, and the much relieved Mox eagerly returned home. Mom and I didn't end up in bed until 2 in the morning.
By the time I woke up around noon (I'm lazy), Mox had been and returned from Vanderhoof's, who gave him LOCAL anesthetic, patched him up, and charged us around $200 dollars. They rock. And aside from a bitchin' scar and a bottle of meds, the Mox-Box returned home with one of those lampshade collars, which he loathes with a burning passion. He's also afraid to be brought outside now. Great. But by now he's gotten the hang of the collar, more or less, though he still will not go in and out of his bed; it freaks him out to step up when he can't see his feet.
So yes. This is how Father's Day shall be remembered forever after. And due to stress and freakage, I have lost five years off my life.
So yes. Last night my parents were to be away at a wedding and spend the night at the hotel it was being held at, and I was to spend the night BY MYSELF for the first time in 17 years. Sad, I know. Anyway, I was at strokemybow's house until about 9:40, and as I was getting ready to go home, I heard the pop of firecrackers, which immediately lit the fire of foreboding in my heart; my dog Moxie is terrified of firecrackers. I get home courtesy of Lisa's dad, and the house is completely dark. Bad sign.
Get to the front door and open the door on the wagging, smiley face of Meggie, my other dog, but no Moxie. Ok, I think, he's probably hiding under a bed or in a closet or in a bathtub (it's happened before). I go through the house and look in all his hiding spots. No Moxie. I systematically go through them again. Twice. No Moxie. I run outside, call into the backyard, and discover the gate behind the garage has been left open.
Let me explain. There are three gates: one from the front part of the driveway to the section between the back door and the garage, one between that section and the backyard, and one at the end of a small passageway behind the garage which also leads to the backyard. There are a couple of gaps in the fence between our backyard and the apartment building next door, so until we fix the fence we just keep both back gates shut. Unfortunately, our gardeners ALWAYS open the gate behind the garage and never shut it. So I started to get a little worried when I saw it was open.
I wasn't TO panicked at that point: our dogs get "lost" occasionally only to be found standing on the porch waiting to be let inside the house--they're real homebodies. I took one of Moxie's squeaky toys and tried luring him with it, then I shook the treat bag (all the while, Meggie's trundling loudly at my heels while I'm straining to hear Moxie--'twas irksome), then I stood on the front porch and called. I could hear the neighbor's dog across the street, but not Moxie. I took the flashlight, and went to the apartment closest to the street next-door. and asked if she'd seen him. She said no, and this is the point when I was about to cry. She offered very nicely to drive me around the neighborhood to look for him, but I was still holding out hope he was close to home and declined. I wandered aimlessly around the front yard for a while (flipping out) and finally gave in and called Mom. Complete panic achieved.
She wasn't worried, until she realized I'd already looked in all the places she was thinking he was hiding. Finally she told me to go into the backyard and check in the basement; last time Meggie got out of the backyard, she ended up finding her way into the basement and getting stuck there, but I thought Moxie was smart enough not to do the same. I went back there anyway, calling him and trying to get the door open (it's one of those cinematic lifty-doors like you see in old Monster-movies, or the storm cellar in Wizard of Oz), when I hear a call from over the fence:
"Are you looking for your dog?"
*pause*
"...Yes."
"Is he a little white one?"
"YOU HAVE HIM??"
"Not exactly, he's wandering around back here..."
I told that angelic voice to wait right there, I was coming, and flew out of the yard, down the driveway, down the sidewalk and up the walkway through the apartment complex; Mox had wiggled into the back patio of the apartment building, and a gate had shut him in so he couldn't come when I called--why he didn't bark, I'll never know. But I opened the gate and he looked at me like "WHERE THE F*** WERE YOU???" I told Mom I had him, and she was grateful not to have to come home, and all was well. So I thought.
Partially in punishment, partially because he'd needed one for some time, and partially because his adventure out of the fence had dirtied him up even more, I fetched the dog forth into the bathtub after drying my face and scolding/hugging the life out of him, when I discovered a small hole in his skin near his right hindquarter. I couldn't really tell how bad it was-- it was damp, but it wasn't gushing or dripping blood or anything. Called mom back, and after much arguing about what should be done about it (I was loathe to bandage him--he'd chew it right off), we decided I'd bathe him and call her back when the situation was clearer.
So I bathed him. My. God. That dog was dirty. 'Twas the first time mud ever gathered on the bottom of my tub. He usually hates baths, and this was not much of an exception, but dammit, he needed it. He gets out, eventually, and after drying it becomes apparent that his injury is a small dime-sized tear in the skin, probably caused by wiggling through a jagged wire fence. Since the Neosporin label says to consult doctors before use on deep puncture wounds, I figured this somewhat qualified. I called mom, and reluctantly, she decided she'd better come home and check it out. It's about 10:30 by this time. This means Moxie and I have to wait in the bathroom until she gets back from Marina Del Rey, 'cos the moment the dog is let out, he shall rub himself against every rug and piece of furniture in order to feel dry. Not good for a dog with a somewhat major owie.
So an hour later and several pages more through Stephen King and Peter Straub's "Black House," Mom comes into the bathroom and inspects the small canine. It is decided that it's a good thing she came home, since it's the kind of cut that needs stitches and can't wait 'til tomorrow; since I have neither a car nor the funds to facilitate a visit to the emergency vet, her presence was very much necessary.
We swaddle the now-nervous nine-year-old dog in towels and pile him into the van, off on our merry way to the Emergency Vet. He's not happy--he knows that if he's wrapped in towels and driven off in the middle of the night without Meggie, something bad is happening. Soon he is crying and must be clutched and cuddled to calm him.
Cut to the vet's office. The receptionist takes us into the exam room; she looks tired but very capable--she checks him out and goes back to get the doctor. Twenty minutes later, the Doc comes in, looks at him for two seconds and is like "We'll have to put him under general anesthesia to stitch him up, and to do that we have to do complete bloodwork since he's an older dog and we don't have prior history. And he'll need an IV, and 42 injections and a blade of grass fetched from the porch of the Taj Mahal." Yikes. Doc leaves after this three-minute consultation, and soon sends in a Vet Tech, who, poor guy, must break the news that the whole shebang will cost $1,042.
Dude.
But the guy knows this is bogus and outrageous, and assures us that it would be a better and far cheaper option to give him an antibiotic shot that night and take him to our normal vet first thing in the morning. Which we agree to. Moxie is all to pleased to get out of there and escape with no less than a shot.
We get back into the office to pay the $120 or so for the shot and the "examination," and the groovy receptionist assures us under her breath that we made the right choice. She goes on to tell us that when SHE wrote the estimate, it was much cheaper and the Doctor pumped it up, calling Mox's little boo-boo a "major laceration." She advised us to bandage him with a gauze pad and a strip of old T-shirt, which we had handy, and the much relieved Mox eagerly returned home. Mom and I didn't end up in bed until 2 in the morning.
By the time I woke up around noon (I'm lazy), Mox had been and returned from Vanderhoof's, who gave him LOCAL anesthetic, patched him up, and charged us around $200 dollars. They rock. And aside from a bitchin' scar and a bottle of meds, the Mox-Box returned home with one of those lampshade collars, which he loathes with a burning passion. He's also afraid to be brought outside now. Great. But by now he's gotten the hang of the collar, more or less, though he still will not go in and out of his bed; it freaks him out to step up when he can't see his feet.
So yes. This is how Father's Day shall be remembered forever after. And due to stress and freakage, I have lost five years off my life.