So I took Licorice to the new vet today. I wanted to get her checked out, establish care, and in general just make sure that my little snuzzy wuzzy snookums was doing okay.
Because Licorice came from a local rescue organization, she is “fully vetted” already, which means she’d been to their vet (who is fine, but is not the vet we chose) and dewormed and everything. Of course, AFTER I made her an appointment with the NEW vet, her foster mom mailed to say that, Oops! She needs another set of booster shots! And she can get those for free at the old vet, they will cover it!
After some consideration, I decided to just go ahead with the new vet appointment, even though I’d then be paying for something I could get for free. No on ever accused me of being the brightest bulb on the marquee.
But oh, poor Licorice. I had no idea what she was in for.
The thing you have to understand about Licorice is that she loves everyone. She loves you very much, really, and she is sorry about… well, whatever. She is sorry and she loves you and could you just… maybe… pet her… just a little? Yes? OH! LOVE! And to show her gratitude, she would be happy to coat your face in saliva. Really, it’s no bother. On account of the LOVE.
So she was perfectly happy at the vet’s office (the smells! the sounds! the SMELLS!) and basking in the love the tech was showing her, right up until the tech tried to take her temperature.
If there is a way to tell a dog “Hey, I’m just going to stick this thermometer in your butt for a second,” I don’t think anyone has figured it out yet. And Licorice’s response to having said thermometer inserted into that particular orifice was to actually go a little bit Tazmanian Devil and try to bite. Which surprised the heck out of both of us. (I have never seen her so much as growl.)
This resulted in the vet bringing in a teeny, tiny muzzle for my teeny, tiny now extremely freaked out dog, and the muzzle, of course, froze her mouth in a permanent rictus that was sort of terrifying, and once she was muzzled, I realized I was just as freaked out as she was, and I sat down in the corner while the very nice tech and very nice vet proceeded to violate my poor puppy.
They gave up on taking her temperature, but she did get her shot (unhappy dog) and have her anal glands expressed (very unhappy dog) and then—the crowning indignation—it turned out that her ears were infected, so she had to have them both irrigated and then treated, and SHE WAS NOT PLEASED.
Periodically Licorice would look over at me, sitting in the corner being all helpful by repeating, “It’s okay, you’re alright, good dog, good dog,” and give me a look like WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? GET THEM OFF ME!
When the vet took the super-long Q-tip thing and put it far enough into the dog’s ear that I was sure it would come out the other side, Licorice made a terrible sound and my heart broke and I was sure she would never love me again, because I had let that mean person hurt her.
But when it was all said and done and the muzzle came off, Licorice was very! happy! to be off the table and prancing around, and she had a treat (although I swear she gave the tech a dirty look while taking it from her) and she was all wags in the car and then we came home and she was all, “Oh! HOME! I LIVE HERE! AND NO ONE SWABS MY BRAIN! I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH!”
Five minutes later she was asleep, because it’s been a hard day and she would like to put this nightmare behind her.
Unfortunately, I now need to irrigate and treat her ears here at home, TWICE A DAY FOR TWO WEEKS. And I am terrified she’s going to fuss and I am going to wimp out. In an email to her foster mom, I said that really the ointment should come with vodka, but clarified that I meant for me, because I was also traumatized, and added that I had no idea if Licorice even likes vodka.
After sending it, I remembered that not everyone has the same sense of humor that I do, and that maybe I should try not making alcohol jokes here in the south where so many people still regard it as the devil’s water.
Thank goodness she mailed back to say that Licorice prefers gin. Really, after the morning she’s had, I think she deserves it.