During the eighteen years I spent on the family farm, I saw ten different dogs come and go. Only one died of old age. The rest met their fate on the dusty gravel road in front of our house, where speeding cars didn’t so much as slow down after hearing the thump that sent our family pet careening off their bumper and into an adjacent ditch. Short doggie life spans were just another sad fact of farm life.
Farm dogs are different than city dogs. Farm dogs, like their urban counterparts, are loyal and loving, but they’re also incredibly independent. An open shed door and a bowl of table scraps to return to at the end of the day were really all they required. Days would go by when we didn’t see our dogs, and it was widely assumed that they were traversing the county, taking stock of the area wildlife, scenery and, if lucky, the occasional one-night stand with a neighbor’s dog. It's the ultimate example of good work if you can get it.
When my wife and I decided we wanted a dog, several compromises needed to be made. Most notably: she wanted a housedog. I wanted a doghouse… outside. Our middle ground was to have our dog, Buddy, welcome in the house during the day, but sent packing to his canine condo at sunset. And I was serious… an old blanket and a dark box were plenty good enough for a dog. Then I remembered we got a city dog.
Okay, maybe I just grew soft, because in no time, Buddy was welcome in the house 24/7. Since we were unable to sublet his doghouse to any of the neighbors’ pets, it now sits empty, mocking my lack of resolve. Now it’s less of a doghouse and more of a creepy spider den that I wouldn’t crawl into for $500. Seriously, it’s infested and scary. I’m thinking about dousing it in gasoline and setting it ablaze.
Our dog is now eight years old. He’s everything you’d want in a canine companion: affectionate, content, loyal, and he barks with the frequency of a major league pitcher throwing a no-hitter. But he’s a housedog. The farm kid in me is embarrassed for him. He goes to the groomer once a month where he’s shampooed and blow-dried. He gets his nails clipped, and, most recently, he had his teeth brushed. That’s right… he had his teeth brushed. My fingers almost refuse to type the words.
At my wife’s insistence, he was checked in at the groomer where a part-time doggie dental hygienist set to work on Buddy’s teeth. Yes, his teeth were disgusting. They were yellow and plaque-covered and his breath smelled as if things were making a special journey to his mouth just to die. But still, he's a dog, and I hated the fact that I would have to admit to people that we were the kind of people who get our dog’s teeth cleaned.
When I went to pick Buddy up from the groomer, the owner of the dog salon told me the hygienist was just finishing up, but ‘needed to talk to me’ when she was done. Concerned by her ominous tone, I asked, “Is everything okay with Buddy?” She hesitated, then waved me off, saying, “Just… she’ll be out in a minute.”
Farm dogs are different than city dogs. Farm dogs, like their urban counterparts, are loyal and loving, but they’re also incredibly independent. An open shed door and a bowl of table scraps to return to at the end of the day were really all they required. Days would go by when we didn’t see our dogs, and it was widely assumed that they were traversing the county, taking stock of the area wildlife, scenery and, if lucky, the occasional one-night stand with a neighbor’s dog. It's the ultimate example of good work if you can get it.
When my wife and I decided we wanted a dog, several compromises needed to be made. Most notably: she wanted a housedog. I wanted a doghouse… outside. Our middle ground was to have our dog, Buddy, welcome in the house during the day, but sent packing to his canine condo at sunset. And I was serious… an old blanket and a dark box were plenty good enough for a dog. Then I remembered we got a city dog.
Okay, maybe I just grew soft, because in no time, Buddy was welcome in the house 24/7. Since we were unable to sublet his doghouse to any of the neighbors’ pets, it now sits empty, mocking my lack of resolve. Now it’s less of a doghouse and more of a creepy spider den that I wouldn’t crawl into for $500. Seriously, it’s infested and scary. I’m thinking about dousing it in gasoline and setting it ablaze.
Our dog is now eight years old. He’s everything you’d want in a canine companion: affectionate, content, loyal, and he barks with the frequency of a major league pitcher throwing a no-hitter. But he’s a housedog. The farm kid in me is embarrassed for him. He goes to the groomer once a month where he’s shampooed and blow-dried. He gets his nails clipped, and, most recently, he had his teeth brushed. That’s right… he had his teeth brushed. My fingers almost refuse to type the words.
At my wife’s insistence, he was checked in at the groomer where a part-time doggie dental hygienist set to work on Buddy’s teeth. Yes, his teeth were disgusting. They were yellow and plaque-covered and his breath smelled as if things were making a special journey to his mouth just to die. But still, he's a dog, and I hated the fact that I would have to admit to people that we were the kind of people who get our dog’s teeth cleaned.
When I went to pick Buddy up from the groomer, the owner of the dog salon told me the hygienist was just finishing up, but ‘needed to talk to me’ when she was done. Concerned by her ominous tone, I asked, “Is everything okay with Buddy?” She hesitated, then waved me off, saying, “Just… she’ll be out in a minute.”
When the hygienist came out, I noticed she was wearing doctor’s scrubs, and I knew exactly the kind of personality I’d be dealing with. See, when your career is 'part-time-dog-teeth-cleaner,' you don’t need scrubs. You need a t-shirt and maybe a pair of sweats. You probably live in a remote canyon where you have several cats and dogs. You are probably simultaneously rehabilitating several injured wild animals who were unlucky enough to set foot on your land. And you probably haven't had a date in years. And, no, lady, shopping with your sister at a craft fair is not a date.
But I digress. This woman's uniform indicated that she was someone who took her ‘career’ way too seriously. And, on cue, came the lecture. “When was the last time you had your dog’s teeth cleaned?” The honest answer was ‘never,’ but, caught off guard, I felt compelled to lie… to impress this person. “Probably about a year ago,” I said, hoping she was as inept at reading people as she was at her "career."
She went on to tell me Buddy’s gums were swollen and infected, and lifted his lips to show me. One problem: his gums weren’t swollen. “Huh, just a minute ago they were really puffy,” she said. I eyed her over. I’m not a veterinarian or even a dog dental hygienist, but I think swollen gums don’t simply disappear in minutes. Then again, I wasn’t the one wearing the scrubs, so what could I possibly know?
I was told that my dog -- nay, every dog -- needs regular cleanings every six months, a schedule even I don’t adhere to with my own teeth. Then she dropped another bomb and said, “I’ve called in some antibiotics for him. You can pick them up at your vet’s office.” I was shocked, but it taught me a valuable lesson… that apparently, absolutely anyone can call in a prescription for your dog.
I love our dog, so of course I picked up his antibiotics. But I’ve decided that this was his first and last teeth-cleaning. He’s had it far too good for too long. From now on, I’ll give him his bath and cut his nails. I might even occasionally hide his doggie bed in an effort to toughen him up. And maybe, just maybe I’ll muster the courage to bug-bomb his doghouse and reintroduce him to a life less coddled. No, my dog will be no pussy.
She went on to tell me Buddy’s gums were swollen and infected, and lifted his lips to show me. One problem: his gums weren’t swollen. “Huh, just a minute ago they were really puffy,” she said. I eyed her over. I’m not a veterinarian or even a dog dental hygienist, but I think swollen gums don’t simply disappear in minutes. Then again, I wasn’t the one wearing the scrubs, so what could I possibly know?
I was told that my dog -- nay, every dog -- needs regular cleanings every six months, a schedule even I don’t adhere to with my own teeth. Then she dropped another bomb and said, “I’ve called in some antibiotics for him. You can pick them up at your vet’s office.” I was shocked, but it taught me a valuable lesson… that apparently, absolutely anyone can call in a prescription for your dog.
I love our dog, so of course I picked up his antibiotics. But I’ve decided that this was his first and last teeth-cleaning. He’s had it far too good for too long. From now on, I’ll give him his bath and cut his nails. I might even occasionally hide his doggie bed in an effort to toughen him up. And maybe, just maybe I’ll muster the courage to bug-bomb his doghouse and reintroduce him to a life less coddled. No, my dog will be no pussy.
No comments:
Post a Comment