Dec. 9: Oliver has now been tutored

On Monday I took Oliver in to get neutered. We’ve been meaning to do it pretty much since we got him, but just now got around to it. The fact that an unspayed female puppy is just about to join our family might have lit a fire under our collective arses, yes.

It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? “Taking the dog to get neutered.” It was not easy. It wasn’t.

Ollie pooped in the waiting room of the vet’s office, but was nervous, so he kept walking and I had to chase him all around the room to pick it all up. Un-fun, to be sure, especially in the crowd of other dog parents who all wore the THANK GOD THAT’S NOT MY DOG expression on their faces. I might have muttered “assholes” under my breath. I might have been talking about those dog owners as well as all dogs in general but mostly mine, because OMG.

Then, THEN, he peed on the front door. That was more difficult to clean up. I apologized a million times to the receptionist and was ready to toss my dog into traffic. If I didn’t want to cut off his important parts already, I definitely did when, immediately after he peed, he looked at me, all WHAT? Like what did I expect?

Then, THEN!!, they called us into the exam room and when the nurse tried to take his temperature he just about took her arm off. OK, I did feel a little sympathy for him after that. He knew he had done bad by nearly biting her, but he also had that LET ME SHOW YOU ON THE BEANIE BABY WHERE THE BAD WOMAN TOUCHED ME! look. I cuddled him and talked softly while the nurse left to retrieve another nurse and a muzzle.

That didn’t work either. He would have none of the muzzle and none of the temperature-taking and he was out for blood. They left again.

This is when I realized that they had inadvertently (I assume…) drained an anal sac while trying to get his temperature, and that his rancid, molten goo was all over the front of me. I thought I might die, right then and there, but I hung on because I can’t bear the thought of people laughing hysterically at my funeral knowing that I was killed by Oliver’s wretched ass juice. Ugh.

The nurses came back with the big guns (the vet) and he tranquilized Oliver. It took four of us to hold him down and even then, Ollie broke the friggin’ needle. Everyone hurried out and over his shoulder, the vet promised Oliver would be calm soon. I cuddled him while we waited, and when the door opened a couple minutes later he immediately worked up a snarl. They gave him another couple minutes and he growled again when they dared show their faces. Finally, a nurse came in with a thick blanket and whisked him away. When she turned around to close the door, I was wiping the sweat off my face and she assumed I was crying. She said, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine!” but I assured her that I kinda hated my dog right then, and they could do whatever the hell they wanted to him and those were definitely not my tears pooling on the floor.

I drove away wondering if I’d be the worst dog mom ever if I never came back. Then I smelled my stenched-up clothing again and knew no one would ever blame me.

Had I abandoned Oliver at his weakest moment, YES, I would have been a rotten dog mom, I know. I went back in the afternoon to get him, and he was so drugged and sleepy that it was kind of adorable and sweet. It made me feel bad for cutting his balls off. (Not really.)