So you know you're not getting Pet Owner of the Year Award when the vet strongly suggests obedience school for two out of three of your dogs.
We went to get health certificates for the dogs today. I prepared for the appointment last night, which meant getting their passports together (yes, dogs apparently have passports these days), making sure the dogs all had their collars on, and gathering their poop in opaque containers while Scout sympathetically dry-heaved in support of my endeavor.
So we're on our way out the door this morning, and I can't find the third leash. This obviously means that Foxy will be going without one, since Lewis is a certified nut-job and Winston has serious separation anxiety when he's not attached to my hip.
So we get to the vet office, and everything is going fine. Until the tech takes us back to the exam room.
Winston starts barking at the tech, the vet, and the cabinet. Whatever he feels threatened by I guess. All the while, he is squirting out butt juice because apparently this is the defense mechanism that works best for him. So then he starts stepping in his own butt juice and the whole office starts to smell. Disgusting. So the vet makes me put a muzzle on him for the remainder of the exam. I'm the girl who has a dog that needs a muzzle.
So then the tech wanted to take Lewis' temperature, which obviously means sticking the thermometer up his butt hole. Lewis is not cool with foreign objects being poked around up there (who is, really?). Lewis is emotionally scarred from having his anal glands expressed a couple of years ago, and since then has been aware that strangers are typically not reaching back there to pet him. He freaked out, just like I warned them he would. Scout and the tech were holding him (well, attempting to), and Lewis was thrashing around, knocking over everything in his way (including a fan that I donated to the clinic). The vet, who is a smallish/mediumish size man, had to put Lewis in a headlock while scolding him. Yeah, I'm also the girl that requires other people to scold my "child." Lewis continued to thrash around, but all three of them were able to hold him still long enough to get his temperature.
Foxy of course, was an angel. She even had to get a new microchip because the one she got in May wasn't working. She made a little noise as that 17 inch wide needle went into her neck, but other than that, she patiently stood next to me while the other two threw tantrums.
I felt like that lady at the doctor's office. You've seen her before. She's the really fat one with white spandex pants on (and for some reason, black panties). She is sporting a mullet. It's apparent that she still has yesterday's makeup on. She has four screaming kids (and maybe one on the way - you really can't tell) that are socking each other in the face with the building blocks provided by the doctor. She is screaming, "Shut UP! I'm not going to tell you again!" Then she goes back to reading her US Weekly magazine as she dreams about how awesome it would be to be married to Kevin Federline. Her kids go back to clocking each other with the toys, as you start looking through your purse for a blunt object to poke into your throat.
So yeah. Today, I was that lady.