On Sunday night, I was happily sitting in my chair, working through a particularly difficult spot in a crochet pattern, when the oldest of the five cats currently on the homestead horked up his supper on the dog’s bed, looked at me as if to say What? and sauntered away. Groaning, I set aside my work knowing I’d have to start over since I’d lost my place in the pattern, and went in search of paper towels. Damn cats.
I was thinking about how I’d have to get the foam sponge out of the liner on the dog’s bed so I could wash it and what a pain in the ass all of that is when I crouched down, paper towels in hand and got eye to eye, as it were, with the mess. And. It. Fucking. Moved.
I had to get Chad to clean it up because Christ on a Crutch there was no way I was getting within 20 feet of that…that…worm? It was long, white, flat, wriggling and about 10 steps beyond a line I’ve drawn regarding Disgusting Animal Scenarios I will not cross including things like blood-swollen woodticks attached to dog necks and half eaten headless birds brought as offering to my back porch door.
We’ve had cats on the farm since we moved out here and I do very little to maintain them except offer food and occasional shelter when the temperature threatens life and limb. I like when LT sleeps on my feet at night and I like how Olive occasionally attacks my boots while I try to write while sitting at the kitchen counter. I like cats, occasionally. Much the same, I’m sure, as how they feel about me. Except I do not barf up alien creatures and then casually walk away expecting the cats to clean it up.
So that incident prompted the adventure Smoke and I had yesterday.
After consulting Dr. Google first thing in the morning, I confirmed my research with our Veterinarian: worms. Probably tape. Medicine required - probably for all.
And since I had her on the phone (and had to make a trip to town to pick up the meds anyway), I managed to snatch up a 4:20 (heh) appointment to get Smoke’s vaccinations updated. How efficient I can be! Smoke likes going places with me and when he sees his leash he’ll be all kinds of excited to go to town.
And he was.
Until I opened the door of the Vet Clinic. He got one whiff and put the brakes on. Hard.
If you’ve ever tried to wrangle a dog who is 100-plus-pounds of muscle and claw, it isn’t a simple task even when he is happy to comply. So make it even more complicated by scaring him out of his mind, adding some ice and snow to the parking lot and sidewalk, and trying to get him to go to the same location where he left his testicles.
It took three of us. One to hold open the door. One to pull on the leash. And me. I had the lovely job of hunching over him, lifting up his back legs, and pushing him into the Clinic, Smoke’s front legs still in full lock down, braking for all he was worth. It was a 10 minute battle of desperation and anguish. And I’m sure Smoke wasn’t happy either. Of course, this is on one of the busier streets in town.
I think it took longer to get him into the Clinic than it did for the Vet to get him his shots and back to the rig. No need for any more trauma than had already been.
I drove home, each of us suffering our own versions of PTSD in silence.
Smoke finally acknowledged my existence again when I started making noises about going for a walk this morning.
That deworming medicine had better effing work.