There are many ways to stay calm. Try meditation. Or deep breathing. Or horse tranquilizer.
I need all three to get through a vet appointment. And I don’t mean to calm down my dog. I need the stuff myself.
My dog, Watson, is technically a senior. Many years ago, he was supposed to mellow out and snooze his way into a ripe old age.
Well, he hasn’t mellowed. His ripe old age doesn’t prevent him from dislocating my shoulder when I walk him up to the vet’s office. Watson isn’t like other dogs. He loves the vet.
He would cheerfully sell his soul for a few Snausages from her. This is despite the fact that whenever he visits Dr. Anderson, she usually pokes him with a needle or sticks a thermometer in a place where no sane dog would ever want one.
So whenever I see Watson’s annual physical coming up, I start to sweat.
You try restraining a 65-pound torpedo all the way from the parking lot up the concrete steps and the gravel walk to the local animal hospital.
I usually lose the battle right around the steps, which means I go up the gravel walk on my face.
This year I decided that I didn’t want to spend the afternoon picking pebbles out of my hair. I would teach Watson to heel.
We went out to the backyard to practice. I told him to sit. He wagged. I told him to lie down. He wagged. I told him to stay. He wagged.
I thought the message must have gotten lost in the six feet of space between us. But there was a sly look in his eye.
Watson is a philosopher. He has long understood the idea that there is no effect without a cause. If I wanted him to heel, love was not enough. Treats were required.
I waved a snack in front of his nose. “Look, Watson!” I cried with increasing desperation. “Look at your delicious arthritis supplement! How about a sit? Please?”
He trotted a circle around the yard. Arthritis supplements were nowhere near the level of treat required. No good. No good at all.
I had some chicken cubes with me, too, but I didn’t want to use my best weapon just yet. “Watson! Sit! Now!” I said in a commanding voice. And I put my foot down.
It went right into a hole. He did another loop around the yard. I hopped after him, cursing. Then I fell.
I have never seen a senior dog move as quickly as he did. Before I knew what was happening, he had gobbled up the chicken cubes and sprung away.
I watched him prance about the yard, as pleased with himself as any genius. I had lost the battle. And I knew what was coming. I hauled myself up, clipped on his leash, and limped to the vet.
“I don’t see why you’re so nervous about coming here,” said Dr. Anderson as I put my head in my hands. Five minutes earlier, the same head had whacked into the door of the animal hospital at 15 miles an hour as Watson towed me inside. “He’s a completely healthy dog.”
Copyright 2024 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.
