Alms, Alms For The Poor

Because it was a day that ends in a “y”, I had to bring one of my pets to the vet on Monday.  I made the appointment on Friday because the histiocytoma (gross red benign tumor) on Dorothy's leg was still bigger than a gumball yet smaller than a gobstopper, and she had started to give it the occasional gnaw, so it was scabby with blood and occasionally oozed lord knows what.

Going to the vet is not a problem for Dorothy.  Unlike my pug, Tulip, who disliked the vet so much she didn’t even like anyone with a “v” in their name, Dorothy loves the vet.  She loves everything about the experience, from the other animals in the waiting area, to the vet techs and office managers, to the vets themselves and the treats they will occasionally give her, to the strange 1-lb Chihuahua who wears a turtleneck and sits in a box under the front desk and sounds like a piccolo when she barks.  She loves it all so much that she even has a reputation there for being rather excitable or, to put it bluntly, a hyper spazzkin.  I get comments about her activity level, which is a bit odd, since in general the problems I have with Dorothy are more of the torpor-ific variety (see a few paragraphs below).

But anyway, once there, they confirmed that Dorothy’s tumor was indeed a histiocytoma, which should go away on its own accord, but doesn’t always do so.  I was given a eyedropper-type ointment to put on it twice a day, and I’m hoping that Dorothy’s tendency to worry the thing will cause the tumor to decide that Dorothy’s leg is not a hospitable place on which to live, and vamoose.  And I would like it to decide to do so before I have to pay an arm and a leg to have it removed from her pretty haunch.

We left with the ointment and a new carsickness medicine to try out on our Maine trip, and we got about half of the four SHORT blocks home when Dorothy decided she was done walking, and that all she wanted to do, thank you very much, was to flop on the hot pavement and roll over on to her side and see how much sympathy she could wheedle from the passers-by.  And how much sympathy would that be, you might ask?  Answer:  a lot.  She had walked two blocks and wasn’t even panting, but of course everyone who witnessed her “faint” on the pavement was convinced that I had been running her ragged in the 101-degree weather, just because I enjoy tormenting pretty little bulldogges.  People nicely asked if she needed water (she had just had a drink at the vet’s two short blocks away), and then would politely and not-so-politely tell me she was tired and it was hot and I needed to be careful, etc. etc.  Sigh.  Meanwhile Dorothy was wanly receiving belly rubs from the advice-givers, while peeking out of the corner of her eye that wasn’t pressed against the pavement to enjoy the concerned looks on people’s faces.

Tired of the hullabaloo, and you know, having to get back to my JOB so I can earn enough money to keep Dorothy in kibble, I scooped up all thirty pounds of Dorothy and commenced walking the two remaining blocks home.  Dorothy’s head bobbed a bit on my shoulder, as she continued her Oscar-worthy act by locking glances with the still-concerned strangers walking behind us.

And what did Dorothy do when we got back inside the air-conditioned apartment?  She proceeded to zoom and literally bounce off the walls and chase cats for a good ten minutes.  So much for being out of energy.

Dorothy, thinking that you shouldn't believe everything you read on a blog: