Apr. 3: To pee or not to pee

Synonyms for urinate:

pee
piddle
piss
spend a penny (what the hell?)
take a leak
wee-wee
whiz

Last weekend we picked Scout and Casey up after a week in the doggie spa and were so happy to see them that they both got a handful of treats when they got home. Casey settled in for some cuddles while Scout asked to go outside right away and wanted more treats when she came back in. A few minutes later she wanted to go out again. And then again. It was like Grandma Mary was here (but-cept no one was doing our laundry or paying attention to our kids). It didn’t take long for us to be not-so-happy to see Scout anymore.

That night she did something she’s never done in her almost-11 years: she peed in her crate. That’s when we knew something was wrong with her. I was freaked out. She’s shown she’s becoming an old dog but—so far—not in ways that require diapering her. I did some searching on the ‘net and it sounded possible that she might have a urinary tract infection. I crossed my fingers and called the vet Monday morning. They asked me to bring her in that afternoon, “with a sample, if possible.”

A sample? Of Scout’s pee? Oh lord.

The whole time I was at work on Monday I was wondering how on earth I was going to get a sample of my dog’s pee for the vet. I could pour out the crate... but no, we’d already cleaned it out six times. I could bring in a piece of the base trim she defiled in her puppy years... but it probably needed to be new-ish pee. Again, I say: oh lord.

I grabbed a Dixie cup, started to follow Scout outside and then re-considered. I should use something that can be closed. Let’s see... I paid too much for that Tupperware to use it for piss storage. And a Zip-loc bag is probably too messy. Then I remembered the cup the urologist told Vic to bring back after he had his throat cut (Curt Saltmarsh code for “vasectomy”). It still had its sterile sticker on it. I popped that sucker open and Scout and I trotted to the backyard for a quick leak.

Her expression when she saw me crawling on the grass behind her was one of surprise and playfulness. But her bladder was full and there was no time for that now. I kept close behind her and she started to look annoyed, then downright pissed. (Ha ha! See what I did there? I used the word I’ve been using as a noun or verb and used it as an adjective and it totally works! Ha ha!)

She finally ignored me and crouched. I was right under her with the cup. It was a piece of cake! (Figuratively, not literally.)

I was so proud of myself to have gotten Scout’s whiz that I didn’t care she peed a little on my hand too. I screwed the cup lid on, washed my hands six times, and we were off to the vet. I was so proud to hand over that paper bag to the nurse, but that woman was not one bit impressed. I think it’s so many kinds of wrong that I don’t get a prize for my grand slam. I’m guessing that might be why Vic never returned a sample of HIS stuff to the urologist. (Ha ha! See what I did there? I likened Vic’s post-vasectomy sample—which is definitely not pee—to a “grand slam” and it totally works! Ha ha!)

Scout has a urinary tract infection, just as the Internet predicted, because the Internet is never wrong. And even after just a couple days on antibiotics, she’s like a brand new dog. So she gets her medication in peanut butter for the next two weeks and then I get to bring in a new sample. I can hardly wait.

Oh geez. I need another cup.