My Dog the Mutant

The other day I came home to a very itchy dog covered in bumps. As you may know, my dog has been struggling with a skin infection for a few weeks, and  no matter what I did whether is was vet visits or home remedies, nothing seemed to clear it up. When I felt the bumps under my dog’s fur, I  impulsively shaved my poor puppy to see what is going on. Looking down at my dog’s skin, I observed that not only had the infection now spread all over his body, but his skin is now dry and patchy, reminding me of a bad dandruff commercial. As soon as I realized how bad the skin infection became, I immediately called my veterinarian and made an appointment.

I admit it. I have a problem that I have had since I was a kid. My mother diagnosed me with diarrhea of the mouth. I will say the first thing that comes into my head to a fault. It’s like Tourette ’s syndrome without as many swear words.  While I was on the phone, the receptionist asked me what was wrong with my dog. Without even thinking, I quickly responded with, “It looks like he has an STD all over his body.” I could tell that she didn’t find this statement amusing at all and after a moment of awkward silence I managed to blurt out the words, “skin infection.”

Two days later I found myself wrestling my dog to try to get his face leash on. My dog HATES this face mask much as a child hates shots. As soon as he saw me pull it out of his dog box, he had a reaction of excitement mixed with the unspoken subtext of, “I will now make your life more difficult. Much, much more difficult.” Trying to get a face leash on a thrashing English Mastiff is like trying to hug a beached great white shark, only less fun.

After ten minutes I was covered in sweat and my hair was slicked back with dog drool but we were finally ready to go to the vet. I put my dog in my station wagon and opened up the windows to allow him to stick his head out and enjoy the breeze. Bear-Bear always finds an immense amount of enjoyment in biting at the air and I like the fact that he is distracted enough to avoid attempting to sit in my lap while I drive.  I still don’t think he realizes that he weighs more than I do. Or that I need to see where we’re going while I’m driving.

As I walked into the veterinarian’s office I faced typical reaction of people taking several steps back and looking at my dog as if I just walked in with a rabies infected lion. I approached the receptionist and she immediately recognized my dog and said, “I think we have a room open.” I have observed that every time I come, they always put me and Bear-Bear in a different room to wait for the vet almost immediately because as soon as I walk to the building, everyone in the waiting room begins to clutch onto their animals as if my dog is a ferocious killer and they tend to back up to the walls. My dog on the other hand, is unaware of everyone else’s fear and feels the need to say hi to everyone. So I struggle to keep him at a comfortable distance while he struggles to give everyone a big, ultra-friendly, slobbery drool-covered kiss. He’s like that hairy great aunt that only visits at Thanksgiving. He just can’t wait to plant a big sloppy one on a new friend.

After the appointment, I found myself waiting to pay in a packed full waiting room. To my left a woman and her young daughter who couldn’t have been older than five sat in chairs several feet away from me. The woman asked me how old is my dog and if he will get any bigger. I let her know that he is two and the mastiff breed stops growing at age three. The little girl with curly hair and large soulful and innocent brown eyes looks over at Bear-Bear and says to her mother with a voice full of enthusiasm, “Wow! That’s a big dog!” Her mother responded, “Well yes honey it is. And he will grow even bigger!” The little girl suddenly became solemn and in the creepiest voice I have ever heard responded with, “And then he will die.”

As soon as those words came out of the child’s mouth, I burst out laughing so hard that I was curled over gasping for a breath of air. The mother was completely and utterly mortified, apologizing profusely and told her daughter not to say those things. I told the mother that it was okay and admitted the daughter was only speaking the truth and eventually he will grow old and jump over the rainbow bridge. I found it a refreshing taste of my own medicine; to see what I was probably like when I was her age, humiliating my mother with my own very uncomfortable and very public observations of life and death. I have been smiling to myself ever since.  There is hope for the future.