Sunday, April 20, 2008

More than you wanted to know.

Nothing makes me squeamish. Nothing. I've had a child throw up down the side of my bed. One threw up over my shoulder and down my back in the middle of a church hallway with all the ladies standing around saying how cute he was. One dog exploded out the opposite end in EVERY CARPETED ROOM in my house. So call Stanley Steemer. Or in my case, use it as a great excuse to rip the carpet out and get a hardwood floor.

So when Pete got pinkeye a few weeks ago, I thought I could doctor him myself. In reality, I just didn't want to haul that huge crate out to the 2 1/2 ton van and take the animal to the vet. I need a horse trailer for him. So I put artificial tears in his eyes a few times a day, wiped them with a warm compress, and didn't let him run in the woods - that's where he gets these things. They actually did get better, but as soon as I stopped treatment, the oozy crud returned. I resigned myself to the difficult trip.

Pete knows where we're going - it's the only place he ever goes besides the dump, and that ride is in the truck - and he starts whining like a baby about halfway there. Seriously, this big, tough bulldog cries like a GIRL. It's pathetic. We drag him in and try to get him on the scale and he shakes like a leaf. Take his temperature and he acts like he's facing a firing squad. Finally the doctor comes in and starts looking at his eyes. He needs a dye-test (not the technical name) where they slip this paper dye strip between his eyeball and upper eyelid for a few seconds. The tears dissolve the dye which then shows the ulcerated areas on his eyeballs. Isn't this fun? Pete doesn't think so, but he has a muzzle and a pinch collar on, so he doesn't have much to say. Finally the doctor prescribes an eye ointment, to be applied inside Pete's lower lids twice a day for five days.

Now drops are bad enough, but ointment? I think for the price he charges, the vet should come here and apply it FOR me. Twice a day. For five days. Elijah holds the dog between his legs and grasps him by the jowls. Pete tries valiantly to wrestle his head away, but Elijah has an iron grip and Pete likes his jowls where they are. I learn in about two seconds that this is not going to be a sterile operation, squeeze the stuff on my finger and jam it in his eye, then rub. What makes a person want to do this for a living?

So I'm glad God didn't make me squeamish. Pete is too. Really.

Be thankful ~


1 comment:

Lisa said...

I'm not squeamish about a lot of stuff, but you certainly have me beat... if I have to clean up vomit, someone's going to have to clean up after me. Yuck.

My mom had it worse: my dad couldn't change a diaper without getting sick. She quickly decided it was easier to clean up one mess than two. You'd think he was faking it, but no: he dog-sat for me once. The dog pooped in his kitchen, and he just didn't go in there until we got back two days later. Couldn't go near it without gagging.

Yup, that's my dad!