Today’s story is all about the dog who did not want to go to the vet. The dog’s name is Zeus–a big name for a white, fluffy-haired, little Shitzu. My daughter wanted the world to know of the tragedy that had befallen her pet.
The vet’s assistant said he did this every day. It was hard to believe this to be true. He came into the house and asked “Where’s the dog?” I pointed to the garden, where I saw the dog standing, warily looking at both of us. “You can fetch him?” the vet’s assistant asked. I looked at him, strangely. My thought was that this was his task. The dog is no fool, he turned and ran. I followed. As I approached, he stopped and lied down, as if in surrender. I picked him up and brought him indoors. I tried handing him to the assistant. The dog snapped at his hand. Must smell like a vet, I thought. The dog ran off.
I asked the assistant if he had a crate for the dog. He pointed to him van. “It’s no use there,” I said. He went to collect it and had it on the floor. I went in search of the dog, again. He knew the routine, so I picked him up and looped my finger under his collar. I brought him to the crate, and put him in. The assistant was all thumbs and could not shut the flap. The dog jumped out of the crate and run away again. I looked at the assistant. “You really do this for a living?” I asked. He nodded. I told him to stand the crate so the opening was at the top. The light that came on blinded us 😊
Back outside, again. Dog in hand. Dog inside. Dog sees crate and tenses his body. I popped him in and he looked like a furry lobster. The vet closed the gate. Bravo! A career saved. He took the dog away, and said he’d be back in the afternoon.
I collected my daughter from school and took her back home for a break, before her piano lesson. I opened the door, and shut it again, immediately. I shrieked. She asked me what was the problem. “The dog…,” I said. The poor animal looked like a rat. All his white fur had been shorn, not trimmed as we had been told. He looked like Samson must have felt. She was going to have words with her mother. I passed the dog, with a glance, as if to say “Sorry, buddy.” He looked back as if to say “Sorry, can’t buy soldier lorry.”