Falstaff’s Visit to the Vet (as told by the AmStaff, himself)
Falstaff regretting his actions...
There are few things more annoying to a dog than when your owner puts you in a car and starts off toward the beach only to turn at Massachusetts Ave. Everyplace has a Massachusetts Ave. – it’s the way to the vet.
I, personally, call it Hell but my woman calls it the vet when she’s talking in whispers to my man about my weight or tummy ache. Lots of times I get out of the trip (probably out of my owners’ laziness) but this time there was no hope. I had stupidly picked a fight with my brother, whose dad was apparently a champion fighting pit bull. My foot was broken and the toe hung off which the woman seemed to find interesting. The man couldn’t look at it.
This was the special vet, the vet where we go when we need more than just shots. As I walked through the magical sliding doors, I spotted a terrier to my right. We exchanged the usual whines and glares but, from the pulls on my collar, I guess my human didn’t want another fight. I could have taken him.
The foot wasn’t bothering me – I thought it was kind of cool – until we got into a little room and this tall lady started poking it. It took my human, two big guys and the vet to hold me down. Now, I wasn’t going to bite anyone, just scare them a little but they thought it smart to put a strap around my nose. Thank God no other dogs could see – my reputation was definitely taking a hit.
After a few minutes, I calmed down (what could I do?). The clean smell of the place was nauseating and I noticed a bit of blood on the vet’s otherwise white coat. Terror struck as I realized it was probably canine and I resolved to behave so I wouldn’t experience her wrath. That’s likely what they do in that back room – silence bad dogs.
I heard an eery howl as I lay there, very close by, then human feet shuffling outside my door. Expecting a dog ghost to enter at any minute, I focused on the thing hanging on the wall. It was a picture of cat hanging on the limb of a tree with some human words beneath it. To my embarrassment, my human noticed and said in her way-too-high voice, “Do you like the kitty, Falstaff? He’s “hanging in there,” just like you!” They all laughed. Silly woman – she knows I hate cats.
After however long it was (I don’t wear a watch), I was lowered to the ground. I looked down at my foot. I couldn’t move it – there was some sort of stiff stuff around it all the way up my leg. Everyone else seemed to think it was great, praising me and cooing about how good it was. I felt differently.
Hobbling out to the car, I was blissfully unaware that I’d be visiting the vet lady again and again. My thoughts were on how I was going to keep my place in the pack with this obstruction on my foot. If they wanted to discourage me from fighting, they had done it. Next time, I’ll pick on a Chihuahua.
