Tag Archives: hilarious vet story

Poopy Pinkie Update

5 Mar

A dog with infinite patience is a treasure.

Children are impressionable and are firm advocates of the Monkey-See-Monkey-Do philosophy of life.  As parents, we’re aware of these facts, but there are still moments when we’re taken by surprise. 

My little Phoebe has been my frequent sidekick on trips to the vet with our dog Gretzky.  The most recent one, however, had quite an impact on her curiosity and penchant for reenactment.  I was folding laundry last week in the master bedroom when my daughter walked in and handed me a small hairbrush she has had since infancy.

“Mommy, can you please wash this hairbrush?  It stinks.”

I sized up the manner in which she held the thing—pinching the portion that housed the bristles between her thumb and forefinger with one hand, pinching her nose shut with the other. 

“Why does it stink?” I asked. 

“Because it was in Gretzky’s butt.” 

Phoebe offered this explanation without fanfare, and without the laughter that would accompany such an outrageous statement if it were meant as a joke.  I eyed the hairbrush suspiciously.  The evidence I was hoping not to find was streaked on the otherwise white handle—only a smear of light brown, but enough to let inquiring minds know where it had been.  The dog came into view of the bedroom’s doorframe.  He looked okay, but he was sporting those “Help Me” eyes I have seen many times since my daughter’s birth four years ago.

“Why was the hairbrush in Gretzky’s butt?”  I asked, still a little fazed that I had occasion to utter the words.

“Because I was pretending to take his temperature like the vet did,” Phoebe answered in a tone that implied I should have known this already. 

“Phoebe, only the vet is allowed to take Gretzky’s temperature.  Do you understand?  I know you wanted to pretend you were helping Gretzky, but you are not allowed to put anything in the dog’s butt.  Nothing goes in Gretzky’s butt.  Nothing,” I still could not believe the necessity of the conversation.

Phoebe, looking visibly disappointed, turned on her heel and went to sulk in her room.

And I went to the bathroom with the hairbrush.  And some bleach.

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Poopy Pinkie

4 Feb
Butt covers for dogs to protect those fingers!

Maybe Gretzky can wear one of these butt covers next time. (find them at etsy!)

Recently my dog Gretzky was diagnosed with Cushings Disease.  Don’t start crying or anything—it’s totally treatable and he will be fine.  But we didn’t know that two weeks ago when I took both the dog and my four-year-old to the veterinary specialist exam that would determine whether or not he had the more vicious form of the disease caused by cancerous tumors on the adrenal glands.  This was a serious vet visit, so I had read my daughter the riot act while we awaited the arrival of the vet in the exam room.

“Mommy needs to talk with the doctor about Gretzky.  This is very important for his health.  I need to listen to him very carefully because Mommy and Daddy are going to have to make decisions that will help him and I need all the information Gretzky’s doctor will give me to make those decisions.  Do you understand?”

“I should be quiet,” little Phoebe answered.

“Yes.  Do not interrupt unless it is an absolute emergency.”

“Like having to poop right away or if I’m sick?”

“Yes, Phoebe.  Those count as emergencies.  But you’re not sick and you pooped this morning, so I think you’ll be able to sit quietly.”

The vet arrived on the scene and checked Gretzky out—thoroughly.  This included a generous dose of lube for my poor dog’s ass and an invasive rectal exam.  I felt so bad for the pup that I forgot to ask why the procedure was even necessary.

The vet droned on about the need for an ultrasound and the possibility of tumors and the risks of surgery.  About ten minutes into his diatribe my daughter tugged at my sleeve with that special brand of annoying notorious among children.

“Mommy, Mommy,” she hissed in her version of a whisper that always precludes any real hope for privacy.  “I have an emergency.”

“Do you need to puke?”  I asked this in a tone devoid of sympathy but ramped up in the scolding department.

Phoebe shook her head no.

“Do you need to use the bathroom urgently?”

Phoebe shook her head no.

“Then whatever you need to say can wait.”  I turned to the vet, “I am so sorry.  Please continue.”

And he did.  And so did Phoebe’s interruptions.  She tried patting my knee gently and hissing my first name when ‘Mommy’ wasn’t eliciting so much as a glance from me.

Then she resorted to making noises.  She emitted low groans that sounded like she was either trying to hold in an explosive fart or was inhaling the consequences of one.

The vet and I ignored her and continued to discuss Gretzky’s fate.  This was difficult as the progression of noises grew stranger, mostly resembling an ancient door creaking on its hinges while being opened one excruciating millimeter at a time.

By the time the vet left the room, I was fuming.

“Okay Phoebe.  What was so important that you needed to be so rude for the past forty minutes?”

She held up the pinky of her right hand.  “The reason I was interrupting is because Gretzky backed into me while you guys were talking and my pinky got stuck in his butt.  It was in there for a long time.  His butt is really wet and disgusting today.  Anyway, I got it out without you.  Can I go wash my finger?”

I was speechless.  Incredulous.  The dog just sat there wagging his tail—no longer suffering from unsolicited anal probing.  Phoebe’s finger was coated in a dubious slime tinged with what Crayola might have dubbed ‘burnt sienna.’

My stomach churned a bit and I cupped my mouth with my hand, but my disgust quickly dissolved into a fit of laughter that my daughter participated in for a good four minutes.

But then we went and washed that pinky.  And then washed it again.

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