Tuesday, December 7, 2010

We arrived at the vet's like a tornado. Dogs blowing down the door and scrambling and yelping. Hershey has two stitches in her head where Lily's teeth snagged her as they scrambled in the lobby.


Leashes, nervousness, and dogs in tight spaces are a bad combination.


We weighed the dogs. Except for Lily, who is a perfect 80 pounds, everyone else is fat. Just so damn fat.


At home again and standing with the fridge door ajar where he is a silhouette rummaging for a snack, Jerry tips the Cool Whip nozzle into his mouth. I listen to the hiss as synthetic whipped cream curls on his tongue. Propping the can back on the shelf, he looks down at Ozzy.


What's wrong with his eye? It's puffy, Jerry said.


Less than five minutes later we were in the truck and on our way to the emergency veterinary clinic to find out why poor Ozzy's cheeks and eyes had swelled. He was inflated, puffy red. In my mind his throat would soon swell shut. I was silent with the pug on my lap, his face turned to catch the cold night air. Jerry drove fast.


At the counter I picked him up to peek at the reception girls. Oh! Oh look at his little face!


The nurse came up to me and asked, who do we have here?


It's Mr Puffy Face, I said.


Not nice, said one of the girls.


Plunking him on the floor and handing the nurse his leash, she said, come on little guy. Can you see me?


His eyes were huge and itchy.


Back home after a shot to soothe Ozzy's allergic reaction, my mood finally crashed and I turned into The Beast That Melts Down And Throws Things. Tonight, not even splintering porcelain calmed me.

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