The Vets

“This won’t hurt, Lily”

Ouch! She lied.

Just as she did the last time I was here. And the time before that. And I won’t even go into the time I came here, had something sharp and pointy stuck in me, and then woke up hours later with a stupid green bandanna around my neck. There should be a law against such violation.

“There you go; that wasn’t so bad was it?”

Yes. It was.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t actually mind the Vets, in fact I usually quite enjoy the little excursions; a chance to sniff out new smells and I generally get quite a fuss from all the staff here. But today just seemed to be going from bad to worse.

Unusually quiet, Dad has gone a funny shade of bright red. He tugs sharply at my leash, and stares at me with an intensive frown as if he’s somehow trying to communicate to me telepathically.

“Lily, keep still” he mumbles, backing up his thought process.

Surmising that for some reason unknown only to himself that he wishes to keep the exchange between us private, I stare back and attempt to portray by the same telepathic method that I’ve just had a stranger stick something sharp in my bum, so my apologies if I flinched just a little bit just then. His blank stare tells me that he’s failed to pick up on my line of communication.

I break wind, guaranteeing that she’s unlikely to stick anything else sharp near my backside for a while now.

“Lileee!” He draws out my name, whilst turning an even brighter shade of red. This from someone that lets out a raucous laugh whenever he breaks wind and no one else is around. No one else of course, except me. He thinks I don’t notice.

It’s not as if I wanted to come here today. I was quite happy charging around the back field, picking up sticks, sniffing rabbit droppings. It wasn’t me that left that sharp object in the field. I couldn’t help but tread on it; of course I would have avoided it if I could. Sure there was some blood, but I don’t think it warranted a trip to the Vet. Certainly it didn’t warrant Dad’s gallant, albeit misplaced, mercy dash, me in arms, back to the house. The antics with his old sock “to stem the bleeding” was inspired but, equally pointless; my dog licks I’m sure, would have been a far more effective treatment.

And the incident with the scales in the reception just a few minutes earlier can not be blamed wholly on me. He wouldn’t ask Mum or indeed any woman to step up to be weighed in complete view of a full waiting area, so why he thought I’d be okay with it, I’ll never know. Anyway; you’d think that animal scales would be urine proof, wouldn’t you?

Dad untangles my leash that has become inexplicably entwined round the table leg and the Vet, and hurries me out of the treatment room.

“Sixty quid!” he exclaims as we leave the building. I don’t understand.

“Sixty blooming quid!” he repeats as I climb into the back of the car.

We turn out of the car park and head towards home. “Sixty quid!” I wonder if perhaps Dad now needs medical attention.

We reach home and I retire to my bed. I drop into a deep slumber; sore foot and a sore bum.

“Sixty quid!”

But mostly a sore head.

In The Dog House

I’m in the dog house. That’s not some funny pun. It’s not funny.

The problem stems from some serious inconsistency with Dad and Mum’s pet parenting skills.

Take toileting for example. Some mornings Mum will just open the back door and allow me to free range into the garden to do my thing wherever I sniff fit. This works for me. Dad however will follow me around passing comment on where I should and shouldn’t go. Plus he’s is a little more hands-on; ready to clear up my doings the second they hit the ground. It’s a little bit off putting to be honest; trying to do your business when someone is hovering just a few feet behind you with a blooming great shovel in hand.

And then there’s the Greeting People at the Door dilemma. Dad always insists on me sitting still at the door before he will even enter the house. Mum on the other hand prefers the Shouting Excitedly through the Letter Box approach; I spin madly round in circles for her entertainment before she opens the door and encourages me to jump up and lick her face. Again on balance, this is the approach I prefer. But it leaves me with just guesswork on how to behave whenever visitors come to the house.

No surprise then that I find myself cowering in the bush at the far end of the park where we live. The bush is a favourite of mine; I use it for shade on a hot day, shelter on a wet and it’s a perfect spot for a quick game of Chomp the Flying Insects whenever I have a few minutes to spare.

And now it screens me from the bedlam that ensues just a few feet away and buys me time to consider my next move.

“Get here!” Dad cries.

I think not.

“Lily, sweetheart; come here”. It’s Mum. The classic Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. I don’t fall for it.

To my right is the house, about 200 yards away. I’m quick; at flat out I could easily make it in less than 30 seconds, but the route is one of open grassland and provides absolutely no cover. Risky.

I contemplate the alternative. From my current position, with a little bit of stealth, I could probably reach the next field undetected, then a quick dash along the perimeter and I’m into the wood. A fairly easy escape but there would be no turning back; I’d be on my own. It’s a scary thought.

“Lily!”

I recognise this third voice. It belongs to the Visitor. The Instigator.

I’d just finished assisting Dad putting the bins out for the evening when he wandered into the garden. My garden.

I gave him a warning bark, but he paid no attention. Rather he retorted “hello boy, what’s your name then?” Putting aside for just one minute his obvious lack of understanding of doggy anatomy, I assumed from his tone of voice that, given half a chance, he would be of the same Shouting Excitedly through the Letter Box persuasion as Mum.

I ran towards him. He screamed in excitement.

A tall man. I had to leap pretty high.

Tall, but not firm. He fell backwards quite spectacularly. Fortunately Dad’s Land Rover broke his fall, the bumper cushioning his head.

I of course did what I could; but he seemed to have some aversion or possibly allergy even to dog licks that seemed to make matters worse. Dad shouted. Mum screamed. I ran.

“Lily! Where are you, you silly dog?”

Silly? I’m so close I could pee on your leg, you fool.

“Here, boy!”

Even now he gets it wrong. How many boys does he know called Lily?

He wanders off. I seize the opportunity and make a break towards the house. He doesn’t spot me. I reach the front door, but it’s shut.

Dam.

Plan B: I lie down calmly and stare back across towards Dad. He feels my puppy-dog eyes burning into him, and turns.

“Lily! There you are baby!” His voice somewhat different now: Calmer. Relieved.

“Have you been there all the time?”

Obviously not. But I’m not letting on. Instead I wag my tail from side to side.

Dad and Mum run towards me and I greet them first with a display of spinning round in circles before jumping up at them both and licking them all over. Neither complain. At last, some consistency.

We go back indoors and I am given some treats. All is right in the world again.

I have no idea what happened to the Visitor, but one thing for sure; if he comes round here again I wont be displaying the same friendly affection again. That’s his sad loss.