So I took Guest Dog Gibbs in for a checkup today–just the ordinary vet thing. We needed to put her on a health plan (cha-ch$ng!) and get her checked out–and pay for a nail clip.
Her front nails were getting out of hand.
It turns out that the kneecaps of her back legs are displaced– they slide in and out really easily, which apparently is a Chihuahua problem. *sigh* Pure breeds. Seriously–a pure bred dog is a birth defect, bred consistently until the inbreeding kills it. Not that I don’t like the idea of certain dogs, but it’s often why I keep the breed of my animals in my books sort of a mystery. Clopper is a cross between a Great Dane and a donkey. I just wrote a Great Dane/Pit Bull/Giant Poodle mixed breed. Lots of size in that one, lots of sweetness–hopefully no hip dysplasia or other problems. It’s one of the reasons I love Geoffie and Johnnie so much, in spite of the fact that as Johnnie ages he looks like a tiny root beer barrel on stilts. They’re just less susceptible to injury is all.
Anyway, Gibbs is a purebred Chihuahua and she’s got displaced knees. They give her a mincing “diva walk” which makes sure her little paws don’t hit the ground, so her front claws were overgrown to a ridiculous degree while her back claws were kept mostly in line by daily walks.
She’s SO much more comfortable now.
But the vet noted that she was exceptionally sweet, and I looked into Gibbs’s little blueberry muffin eyes and realized that the worst thing possible had happened.
I’d fallen in love with the little butt-cookie oven.
I mean, she crapped IN THE VET’S OFFICE while I was getting her registered. There I was, three dogs wrapped around my ankles like a furry bolo death-machine, and I smelled something. Looking around me was made ridiculous by the fact that I was dodging dogs AND trying not to step in that thing I smelled, and boom.
Butt-cookies–I barely avoided stepping in them. (As ZoomBoy calls them, “MY LEAST FAVORITE COOKIE!”)
Anyway– just as I discovered the butt-cookies, Johnnie AND Geoffie both piddled. So in about four minutes, me and the Chi-who-what mafia managed to wipe out the entire front of the desk at Banfield. It was really impressive.
But we got that cleaned up, she got looked at–turns out she has athletes foot fungus. Go figure. And I was told that–like my other animals– we could all stand to lose a few pounds.
And I realized that, permanent or not, she’s family. She’s the number-one reason my knitting is slow. She’s the force behind two runs to the treat bag every night. She’s one of three small furry chaperones that cuddle my body and try not to let any sex happen in my bed, period. (Mate and I have been known to kick them out–I’m just saying, the three of them are judgy and out of sorts when we do.)
And the kids are all looking for a new place to live so she can go stay with her original mom. *sigh* I’m gonna miss the diva-stepping, butt-cookie pushing little bolo-weight, I really am. And judging by the way Geoffie and Johnnie were all licking her little face and nuzzling her when we picked her up, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.
Dammit.
All small dogs are assholes.
