Anyway, with all the new smells around me, I leave my spoor everywhere to remind the locals of my visit, even crossing a bed of shrubbery to pee on a particularly fragrant plant. The master isn't amused as he has to follow me and people are looking. It's an affluent area where the locals respect the footpaths and don't use rockeries as stepping stones.Then we follow the main road for a while until he stops and opens a shop door.
It's the vet's.
My nose is overwhelmed by all the smells, particularly that of fear. My rear starts to tremor worse than an epileptic alcoholic with the DTs. The master reassures me, then tells me to behave. I reckon he's scared a confused vet will treat me for alcoholism and epilepsy and not the real reason I am there: vomiting.
You see, for a few nights now, I've been jumping off their bed and puking on the bedroom carpet, bringing up undigested omelette that the master shared with me for breakfast (he adds an extra egg so I get my fair share). I thought I was being respectful throwing up away from the bed. They didn't see it that way. They became increasingly irritated. I can't help it if my tummy doesn't puke to a timetable that fits in around their alarm clock.
The vet checked my weight - the same, despite being starved for 24hrs; my teeth and gums; then my temperature. Bear in mind this is the first time I have met the woman and off she goes with her thermometer probing areas not even my tongue has ever breached. I am not amused. I climb up on the master, who is assisting the molester, but his grip on me is firm. A minute later the vet woman removes it and calls me 'hot'. Yeah, well, your compliments are too late. Next time, I expect dinner and a date before I'll allow you access to that part of my anatomy again. When she starts squeezing into my stomach, I've had enough. I growl then snarl until she desists.
By this time the examination table is wobbling like an earthquake, such is my shaking.
She pulls out three syringes.
The shaking gets louder.
The noise reminds me of the last time I was in this surgery: when my chance of having pups was taken away. I also remember that this is where they put us to sleep. I am not ready to die. I've still got a new toy that needs the stuffing pulled out of it. My life is not over.
My hackles rise, allowing her to jab me in the soft bit without too much discomfort: antibiotics, anti-inflammatories then antacids, injected one after another. When I'm lifted off the table, I make for the door but the master and the vet want to discuss my dietary needs over the next few days, plus he's oh so interested in the medication.
By the time we get out, there is a waiting room full of annoyed canines, who bark their irritation at me.
"Do hurry up. Some of us are properly ill." That's posh designer dogs from a well-groomed area for you.
I tell them to 'Woof off' but I'm in a minority here and they are bigger than me. I change tack and sit quietly, longing to be outside again, away from the stink.
I'm relieved to be taken home. I'm on a special diet now and off the morning omelette. Life isn't fair. Just to be awkward I spit out the tablets I've got to take for my stomach. And if they think I'm waiting an hour before breakfast because of medication, they can shove that idea right up their own thermometer probe area.