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 mph as Watson towed me inside. “He’s a completely healthy dog.”
Alexandra Paskhaver’s column is distributed by Cagle Cartoons.
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