Last Friday evening, Scott turned Sophie on her belly to examine her two week old stitches from her spay.
"Call the vet tomorrow. This incision doesn't look very good."
The "tomorrow" was Saturday and our vet isn't in on Saturday. It's one of these doctor-lifestyle things where vets, like family docs, would rather be running the New York marathon than tending to pets on the weekend. Sure enough, when I called, the answering machine instructed me to call the new emergency veterinary clinic that all of the local vets have invested in.
The nice lady there advised that it would be a whopping $165 to walk in the door and suggested I call another vet in town. We do have a second vet for Finnigan, but he would have charged me at least 60 bucks as punishment for going to another vet.
So we sat on Sophie's stitches until Monday.
We arrived with Sophie and Finnigan in tow following our walk at Conroy Pit.
"It will take a few minutes," the receptionist advised, lighting a candle. "We're doing a euthanasia right now."
Jesus, I thought. Some poor family is injecting their dog or cat and we're going to see them come out wailing. I've been to this rodeo a few times, and just the thought of euthanasia makes me start to weep.
Then a lady came in with her own lab. She didn't need to see the vet.
"I just let her guide me in here," she said. "She's a rescue, so I let her do whatever she wants."
What she wanted was to start something with Finnigan who was trying to chew on the door to the dog food room. A minor dustup occurred, with Finnie gnashing his teeth while the rescue tried to hump him.
"Bad dog," the woman said to Finnigan, who really was the victim here.
Then she spent twenty minutes hanging around, chatting everybody up, and finally left with her stupid assed overindulged rescue dog. I admire people who rescue dogs, but I get sick of them patting themselves on the back about it, and treating the animal as if it were royal.
Anyway, Sophie was finally seen by the vet. Her little tummy had rejected one of the sutures, which had popped out. The vet plucked it and instructed us to put Sophie on bed rest.
I've said it before, I'll say it again. It is impossible to keep Sophie quiet. She spends her day attacking Finnigan, humping Gordie and biting me. She is not a calm pug. She is a nasty muther-fucking-devil's dog if I'm to be perfectly honest.
Sophie is so bad-assed, she could have been a Navy Seal.
And Navy Seals don't let a little thing like having their reproductive systems ripped out to keep them from finding a member of the Taliban -- a squirrel -- behind a tree in our backyard and disemboweling it.
So good luck with that.
We'll be back at the vet another time for sure.
I hope Miss Rescue has found another place to give her dog treats.