Good Enough For Me

Good Enough For Me

Here we go again. That vet place. Can’t say I enjoy my visits here. Once a year I get stabbed, which is supposed to be good for me. (Really?) and every time I visit I get weighed and shamed. Hey, it’s not my fault I’m big-boned.

My person clips on my lead and leads me towards the door. I take one long breath of fresh air before entering. I know the disinfectant smell will burn my sensitive nostrils. Not sure why these vet hangouts are so into cleaning products. Like we dogs aren’t going to walk right out the door and traipse through the urine and faeces in the carpark. I can’t say my person’s car is that sanitary either. Or his home. Bless him. He does try but since his wife left, standards have slipped. It doesn’t bother me. Cracker crumbs on the sofa are always a pleasant surprise.

Cheery greeting at the desk and the lady there hands me a treat to make me ‘feel more comfortable’. I can’t say it does but the treat is delicious. I wonder where she got them. Maybe she could give us the details.

Yeah, okay, I’ll get on the scales. I hear my person sigh. By the way, his name is Josh, though his ex-wife used to call him ‘bastard’. The scales say I’ve gained weight again. At least Josh/bastard will get told off and not me. After all, it isn’t my fault that he likes to share his packets of crisps with me when we lounge on the sofa at night. I’m providing him with much needed companionship. I’m a therapy dog and sharing snacks is a duty I’m happy to perform.

A young lady of the nurse persuasion calls us into a small room. Yikes it stinks in here! The last dog clearly emptied his anal glands. He must have been one scared puppy if the stench is to be believed. What did she do to him? I bet it was the toenails. Keeping close to the door for a quick escape seems a prudent measure.

“Hello,” she chirps and tosses a treat on the floor towards me. I know it’s a bribe but who am to waste a quality treat? I swallow it whole. “Okay fellow, this is your six-month health check. We are going to start at the nose and work our way backwards.”

Are you really? I narrow my eyes at her but she doesn’t seem to get the message.

The nurse turns to Josh. “Do you have any concerns about,” she glances at one of those screen thingys, “Stanley?”

I prefer the more informal ‘Stan’ but Josh doesn’t bother to correct her. He shrugs.

“No problems that I’ve noticed,” he says. Gotta love the guy. I’m not sure he would notice if I had erythema multiformae (I have no idea what that is but I heard them mention it in the waiting room in hushed tones so it must be bad).

“Well,” the lady stretches out the word in a tone of voice that alerts me to her next remark. “He could lose a bit of weight.”

So could you sweetheart, I want to say. But I have better manners.

Josh stares at me as if he’s never seen me in his life. “Oh,” is his pithy retort.

“What are you feeding Stanley?”

Stan, the name is Stan. He’s feeding me that cheap dog food he gets at the supermarket. Funds have been tight since the divorce so we switched to the economy brand. Frankly, it tastes like sawdust. It probably is sawdust but needs must. I eat it.

Josh scratches his head. “Biscuits. Not sure what kind. I get it at the shops.”

The nurse makes a moue of distaste and types characters onto her screen contraption.

“I think you might need to feed less of it. Or maybe cut out treats. Does Stanley ever have people food?”

Whoa there! Food is food. You people can’t own it. I’m getting cross now and let out a huff. She glances at me. I hope I’ve made her nervous. Meanwhile, Josh looks in my direction. He has that furrowed expression on his face that he used to get when his wife asked him why he left the refrigerator door open.

“Maybe, sometimes. You know, if there are leftovers.”

She shakes her head at him. “It’s healthier for Stanley to just eat dog food. If he is on a quality, balanced diet, adding to it with table scraps unbalances the diet. Also, some of our food is actually dangerous for dogs.”

“I didn’t know that,” Josh admits and glances at me again. Now he is chewing on his lip. I try to give him a reassuring look. It’s okay mate. You haven’t poisoned me yet.

“Alright, so you are going to start cutting back on Stanley’s intake and maybe,” she tries a smile at Josh, “invest in a better food so Stanley gets all the necessary nutrients. Now, I’m going to look at his teeth.”

As she approaches me, I back farther into the corner. I’m a bit embarrassed about my breath. I know it smells of butt but how else am I supposed to keep myself clean? She crouches next to me and lifts my lip.

“Oh my, we have a bit of tartar building up. Have you ever thought about brushing Stanley’s teeth?”

Is she kidding? Has she seen Josh’s teeth? If I could roll my eyes I would.

My person rubs his hand against his dirty jeans. “Uh no. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It’s very simple really,” the nurse explains. “You must use canine toothpaste but they love the taste – it’s chicken flavoured.”

I perk up my ears. Chicken. Yum.

She plucks a toothbrush off the work surface and without a by your leave, shoves into my mouth and scratches at my dental arcade. “You see. Super easy. And he’s such a good boy I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting him used to it. Once a day, every day, okay?”

Josh nods but his eyes are wide, almost in terror. Another chore he’ll have to perform and he still hasn’t figured out how to work the vacuum cleaner. Poor man.

The nurse proceeds to listen to my heart – it’s big and full of love so she has no reason to complain about that. My chest meets with her approval as well. I’m not as fit as I used to be but I don’t get out of breath climbing the stairs when we go to bed at night.

“How much exercise does Stanley get?” She is kneeling on the floor next to me, looking up at my person.

“We go out every morning and then in the evening too.” Which means that we wander down to the poo bin in the morning and in the evening he takes me to the chippie, ties me up and goes inside for his order. It’s routine and I know the smells backwards and forwards but at least I keep up with the neighbourhood gossip.

“An hour each walk or thirty minutes?” That smile pasted on her face must hurt after a while.

“Not sure,” Josh mumbles. It’s twenty minutes If we’re lucky. Though sometimes, he stops and tries to strike up a conversation with a neighbour. I’ve got to be honest here - Josh just isn’t up for major exercise. He has an old rugby injury and there’s that insulation around the middle he is lugging around. It was the ex-wife who used to take me out on runs. Nearly wore the pads off my feet. She was into fitness. Josh and I, we’re more mellow. We have nothing to prove.

“Exercise will help Stanley keep his weight down.” Will she ever stop banging on about my girth? “There are a lot of health problems associated with obesity – arthritis, heart disease, even diabetes. I’m sure you don’t want Stanley to suffer.”

I am sweetheart. Just being in this room with you while you pick me apart is agonizing. Do you think I can’t understand you? That’s bloody condescending. And, I’m not obese! Just a bit fluffy.

Letting out a huge sigh and a fart for good measure, I collapse on the floor. This should demonstrate that I have had enough.

Both humans turn to me. Good. They’ve noticed.

“I just need to take his temperature,” the nurse announces.

No effing way.

But she does. The indignity of it. Josh has to avert his eyes.

And then the little miss is scribbling away instructions about how many pounds I need to lose, and how many calories I’m allowed each day. In your dreams lady! To top off her lecture, she gives out an instruction sheet on dental care.

“All set then! See you in six months for Stanley’s booster. Take care!” She waves us out the door.

I put on the speed and drag us out to the car park, Josh stumbling behind me. Once in the car, Josh heads straight to the chippie and then stops at the off license. It’s going to be one of those nights.

Later that evening, we are on the sofa. I ate a few too many chips and my guts are gurgling but Josh doesn’t seem to mind. On his second beer, his digestive tract isn’t so quiet either. We are watching the footie, my head on Josh’s knee, his hand on my head. He strokes down my spine and I feel my muscles relax after the day’s ordeal. Just me and Josh, home and comfortable as we should be.

“I’m sorry Stan. I guess I’m not a very good dog owner.”

What? I lift up my head and try to look him in the eye but he is staring into the empty beer tin.

“If I really loved you, I’d find you a better home.” His voice cracks and he drops the tin and then lets his head fall into his hands. I can barely hear the next words. “My wife was right. I’m not good at anything.”

No, no, Josh! You are perfect at being my person. How can I tell him this? He must know. I paw at his arm, pulling his hand away from his forehead and then I lick his face. There is the taste of salt. I crawl into this lap, though I am too big for that puppy trick. Both paws are on his shoulders now and I force him to look into my eyes.

What do you see there Josh? It’s love. Yup, with your bad teeth and your beer belly and your nowhere job. I don’t care. I love you. And you love me. We’re going to get through this together mate.

Now go get us a packet of crisps.