Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts
By Alyce Wilson
Here I am driving my dog to the vet for the third time in three weeks, except that this time it's to help other dogs.
You see, when I brought her in last week to find out why she was sick, we did a test for tick-borne illnesses. The test done in the office returned negative for Lyme Disease and positive for erlycchia, another tick-borne illness.
An outside lab reached the opposite results, testing positive for Lyme Disease. Now, while the treatment is exactly the same, the vet is concerned about the accuracy of the in-office test.
So they've asked me to bring Una in so they could take some more blood, retest it and send some blood to the company that created the test, to try to figure out what the problem is so that they can possibly avoid this in the future with other dogs.
And while I hate to put Una through the experience again, knowing how stressed out she gets at the vet, I have an altruistic streak, particularly when it comes to animals. I'd like other people's dogs to be healthy.
So here we are. My dog looks unusually dejected. I think she's beginning to recognize the route. And I feel like a traitor, because I know as soon as I pull up she's going to scream and cry. Maybe she'll start to see this as a weekly routine and just figure that once a week we go to this office and she gets prodded a bit.
I've got to move the boxes from my living room some time today. The boxes are there because I finally got more of my stuff from my mom's house. I've been storing it there in the attack, and she wasn't incredibly happy about this but had forgotten they were there. The reason I picked them up was because I'd actually gone there looking for special things and when I saw how crowded her attack was doing, I decided to suck it up and be an adult about this.
So I loaded up my truck with seven or eight boxes, now sitting in my living room. These boxes are filled with books and papers. The reason they're still in the living room instead of in storage is because first I have to transfer them to plastic containers, my storage area being, technically, my basement.
I've been putting it off all week, doing things like my taxes and writing a skit about Saddam Hussein joining the Backstreet Boys. So you can see, I've been busy.
My dog sniffed all the boxes when I brought them in. She does this with every new object brought into the house. I wonder what goes on in her mind: "Food? Not food. Food? Not food."
We've learned to move around the boxes, but now I have a friend coming down from New York City. Even with the boxes on the floor, my apartment will be about three times as big as hers for about a third the price. Still, I feel obligated to make some effort. Maybe if I throw a nice tapestry over them...
"Let it Be" comes on the radio, as always, with perfect synchronicity. "When the brokenhearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer. Let it be. For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see. Let it be. Let it be. Let it be."
As I expected, as soon as we pull up, Una whimpers and protests. This time, she really tells me off, mouthing off to me. We get out of the truck, and she looks straight at me, barks in displeasure and jumps on me, wrapping her front paws around my waist in a desperate, pleading hug.
But I take her inside, the vet technicians take her, get the blood from her and bring her back out. She is deliriously happy, knowing we're going home. We're now driving home and she's smiling and licking me gratefully.
To make it up to her, I'll let her sniff everything inside the boxes.
Moral:
Stop to smell the boxes.
Copyright
2003 by Alyce Wilson
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