just
another hardboiled thursday
They waltz into my dirty little surgery on a
characteristically drizzly Thursday like they own the place. The couple look like they ain’t short of cabbage,
with frowns that probably only curl up at the ends when they see a TT on your bonnet. Still, it means enough to postpone a
‘So what brings Princess in today?’
The pair look at each other like they need
permission, but not from me. The
lady-one finds her pipes first.
‘She’s not been well for the past day and it’s
not like her at all. She barely ate a
thing this morning, and all she wants to do is lay in her bed.’
Not wanting to be the G-flat in the duet, the
guy-one slaps his oar in wide.
‘She spends most her time in bed now
anyway, but this isn’t her. Of course we know she’s
getting on a bit, but she’s always at the door for walkies. She’s still our little girl.’
Nine year old Princess is as typical as
she is a credit to the Labrador society.
She’s black and shiny as a worming rep’s heart, her tail wagging from
the get-go when she steps into the joint. She
has a body built for comfort and not speed, or a long future in mobility. It's a coffee table physique wrapped in a
blizzard-tog duvet, her head like a pea stuck on the edge of a drum. Other breeds scrabble the carpets in the
other direction, while ‘little’ Princess waddles in like it’s the North Pole
and I’m a tinned meat Santy Claws
‘I by no means think it’s time,’ she says, an
elbow of force in her voice. ‘I know she’s old but
there’s a lot of life left in her.’
‘No!’ he says, sensing the danger his Mrs
seen first. ‘We’ll do whatever we have
to. We just want her better.’
The words are out there and I know they
ain’t just whistling in the wind. These parents just want their baby better, and it’s not mackerel that’ll stop them. They’re so lousy with love
for Princess they’d probably mortgage the McMansion. He’s already got the tissues out.
‘Let’s take a look at her. I don’t think we need to worry too much just
yet.’
I bend at the knee and give Princess a
two-for-one ride on the old poke-n-prod, looking for the usual suspects. It’s a fairly uneventful stroll until I hit
the back-porch. Over her hips Princess hits tilt on the pain-o-meter.
‘Has she been on any long walks lately?’
The lady-one glares at the guy-one.
‘Brian took her for a marathon hike
yesterday, didn’t you?’ she sneers.
‘And Princess is a little over condition. I think maybe she’d do better, be happier
and live longer with fewer calories.’
‘And who is always giving her treats, Ruth?’ he
barks.
‘And shorter walks. At least until she’s got her weight down.’
I don’t like seeing loving parents
squabble so I give them the soft serve on arthritis. I tell them I think Princess has a bout of
the old and creakies, probably brought on by long walks and too many lard
sandwiches. If I hit seventy and some
clown holds back on my pain meds I’ll have something to say about it. But they’re fine to pull some blood
and make sure she’s good for taking the pills. When the machine and nurse tell me she’s okay
for it, Princess goes home with a list of further care as long as an
Orangutan’s arm, and some tablets to shake off the grumblies. Only out to the toilet, feed for a dog that
hasn’t eaten another dog and we’ll recheck her next week.
I watch them walk out holding hands,
grateful and happy, before closing the consulting room door. It’s clear today my cynicism cap needs a good dry clean. I turn back to the computer, tap out a jingle
of notes, wondering at the mug I am. Judgement: she's a fools bet no one can afford. Least of all a dirty so-and-so vet like yours
truly.
I take a breath, fill the old laughing
bags with fresh air and insight. I open
the consulting room door and poke my head around the corner.
‘Captain Kitty Underpants,’ I say, smiling
like a newly sainted idiot. ‘Is Captain
Kitty Underpants here today?’
