My first recent veterinarian visit occurred about a week ago and involved a dog tongue-laceration. Now, I previously have led you down the road to believing that my dog, though neurotic, is rather intelligent. Apparently, this intelligence does not encompass the knowledge to avoid running around at high velocities with a pointy stick pointing pointily toward, say, the back of one's gullet. In this case, my highly intelligent shepherd dog's gullet. To the untrained eye, this activity may, in fact, seem funtastalicious, but the reality is a bit different.
I realized something was wrong with my dog when he stopped mid-wrestle with the stick, looked at it balefully and backed away from it, then switching the baleful look to me and rolling over to expose his soft underbelly in a motion meant to evoke pity and to psychically imbue me with a feeling that something was very wrong with him. After he refused to play with Squeaky Toy and eat his breakfast, I took him to the vet.
The vet decided to get a good view in Hyperhund's mouth by somehow grabbing his tongue and his nose at the same time, while simultaneously attempting to shove a flashlight into the depths of his maw. After a few attempts, mostly resulting in loud dog gagging sounds followed by trails of drool, the nice doctor suggested she sedate him to get a better look. I reluctantly agreed, though I secretly felt maybe a little happy because that meant I would not have to take HH on his hour walk in the afternoon.
Two hours later, the kindly doctor explained that the dog had a 3" laceration under his tongue, which technically should have required stitches but it was in a bleedy place, so poking needles in there just would not do. I was told to bring HH home and give him antibiotics. Because of all the poking of the tongue, he also now had a tongue water blister so he also got a pain-killer.
All was good. He walked to the car, got in, got back out when we got home, walked in the direction of his bathroom area like he was on a mission to pee, and then kind of stood there, blinking as if trying to decipher what exactly this particular area meant to him. We moseyed back to the house, mission unaccomplished.
I left him there for ten minutes... ten, I swear... alone, while I went to put the neighbor's puggle outside. When I came back, the HH has ensconced himself in his happy place, the tiny space under the coffee table behind which all the tv cables lie. He likes to hide amongst the cables. Perhaps they evoke memories of wilderness and vines; I really don't know. Nevertheless, when I came back, he was ensconced. The problem was not just the aforementioned ensconcement, but also the fact that he was still as loopy as a kid who'd gotten one too many swigs of Nyquil and then been sent for a downhill tricycle ride. Not pretty.
I could not get him out.
I tried coaxing, pulling his front end, shoving his paws through loops of cables, but no. Ensconced he remained, glassy-eyed and confused. Lest you wonder why I am so feeble-minded as to not think about unplugging the flipping cables, I would like to tell you that the cables go behind bookshelves, around corners, and have all sorts of other technical difficulties.
And lest you don't believe me, I would like to include this incredibly pathetic photograph, which I think truly captures the moment well, better than I could even draw it:
See? How much more pathetic can you get than that? That's so sad I almost didn't post it. Note the doped-up face and the cables around his body. So tragic.
You'll be happy to know that I did eventually get him out unscathed (both of us).
I was going to write about my cats' vet visit in this post, too, but I feel too emotionally vulnerable from the sadness of the above picture. I'll probably post that in another year or so if I remember it.