Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Say hello to my little dog

I took Wimzie to the vet for her annual shots the week the girls were gone to Florida and I haven't written about it yet because I think she can sense me thinking about that day; she starts eyeing my ankles in a speculative manner and I have to hurry up and start thinking about cookies.

Wimzie, shameful animal, has been known to bite people. She once bit a plumber, who came unannounced into her yard. He didn't take me seriously when I said, "You see that fluffy little dog out there? She will try to kill you, so let me know before you go to the back yard so that I can lure her inside."

"That dog?" he said incredulously. "The one that looks like she could be doing television commercials for the kind of food people serve to fluffy little dogs? I have a Domberman who poops bigger than that."

I warned him. The next words he said to me, as he was jumping up and down in front of the patio door, were, "GET HER OFF!!! GEDDER OFFME!!!!"

Thank goodness he was wearing leather boots, or she could have really done some damage.

So this was Wimzie's first visit to this vet -- I found a place that has very competitive prices on their dog doctoring, so I changed practices. As I took her in the treatment room, the vet tech and the summer intern both went "Oooh, wook at the little sweetums!! Wook at dis furry widdle baby! Isn't hers just the cuuuuutest widdle fing?"

Wimzie responded by silently showing her teeth and trembling with rage.

"Oooh, hers is a mean one!" giggled the vet tech. "Is hers gonna show dems bad teefies?" She extended her hand for Wimzie to sniff and Wimzie responded by trying to lunge out of my arms to go for her throat. The vet tech did an amazing backward leap, as if she were doing the long jump in reverse, and she and the summer intern huddled back against the wall, their eyes wide. Wimzie, still in the confine of my arms, was vibrating like a fighter jet. Actually, she was sounding like a fighter jet as well, with this deep, menacing roar taking place inside her fourteen pounds. Her lips quivered, pulled back over glistening fangs. Her entire demeanor said, "Address me in that tone of voice once more, bimbos, and I will BATHE MYSELF IN YOUR BLOOD."

"Um, do you have a muzzle?" I asked lamely.

Wimzie did not take kindly to being muzzled. Once she couldn't bite, the only thing she could do was stand rigidly upright, shooting her eyes from side to side, while continuing to make that sound, which could also be identified as "Vesuvius, just before three." Wow, she was so ticked. I honestly wondered if she'd just have a stroke right then and there; she is twelve years old, after all.

It was not a happy visit.

Later on that evening, I was telling my husband about the experience. Wimzie was sitting by his side, looking up at him with adoring eyes, batting at him with one paw so that he would continue administering ear rubs. Every time he stopped, she'd lick his hand in a lovesick, infatuated manner than frankly makes me a little nervous; whose husband does she think he is?

"If someone ever tried to break in the house," my husband said thoughtfully, "I could go to the foyer with Wimzie tucked under my arm and go all Tony Montana on them. 'You wanna play rough? Hokay. Say hello to my leedle dog!'" He grabbed Wimzie up and pointed her at me; predictably, she snarled and snapped her teeth. She resents her portability.

So here's Al Pacino, going all bullety. Just imagine my husband instead, with a Jack Russell terrier instead of a gun.

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