Saturday, November 21, 2009

How did I get this dog?

Well, Pete survived his 7-hour ordeal at the pet hospital. Because it was a comprehensive exam and there was a lot to do, including shots and several tests, they asked me to drop the dog off. I was glad to.

When I went to pick him up, I asked nervously if he had been good. The girl at the desk said, "Um, I'll go get the technician."

Why did I even ask?

Not one, but three technicians came out. I wanted to crawl under the display of doggie beds. But they were smiling and immediately started gushing about how wonderful he had been, how compliant, how he licked their hands and sat still while they cut his nails and did all their tests. I was speechless.

Finally, after looking down at Pete sitting happily at my feet, I said, "This Pete? For real?"

They continued with their gushing and praising and petting him while he happily sat next to me and licked their hands.

I said, "I want to know what drugs you gave him, and I want to take some home."

"Ha, ha, ha," they laughed. I was so funny. He was such a sweet, loving dog.

I paid my bill and left, glancing down at Mr. Compliant every so often to make sure I had the right dog.

When we got near the van, I was unlocking the back door to let him jump up into his crate, when a car pulled in next to us. A man got out with a Papillion on a leash, and thank the LORD for the leash. That little dog was possessed with a spirit of kill-the-big-wimpy-bulldog, and it was hell-bent on its target. Whatever drugs they had given Pete instantly left his system and he reverted to his old, petrified-of-everything, shaking, jumping, frothing self. He bounced like a pinball between the bumper and my left leg until I could get the van door open. As soon as I did, he catapulted himself at the crate and bounced off the closed door. I fumbled to get the peg out so I could pull the door open, but Pete had reached his limit. He flung himself up again, this time smashing the door inward, but successfully getting into his haven of rest. He cowered, trembling, as far back in the crate as he could get, and whimpered while I secured the door. Rolling my eyes and heaving a sigh of relief, I closed up the van and turned to walk around to the front door, when I saw the man and his Papillion-from-the-devil staring at us incredulously. I forced a smile and got in my van.

No doubt about it. That's my Pete.

Be thankful ~


1 comment:

Brother Ben said...

You have the dog castrated before his first birthday and then you complain that the dog isn't a dominant male? PUUULLLLEEEEEAAASSSEEEEE!