“Please Mom! Please Mom! Puh-leeze, Mom!!!!!” and so on and so forth for 15 years. Hanna’s first words were, “please,” “dog,” and “we’ll name him, Wilson.” But it wasn’t the begging that ultimately led to our caving. We. Got. Tired. Also, last fall, Ellie turned on her computer and presented a 30 (ish) page, full colour power-point presentation (with multiple fonts!) outlining all of the reasons our family would most certainly die a miserable, lonely, pathetic, group-death if we didn’t at least consider the idea of a family pet. We were stuck in the family room with nowhere to run. It was raining and she had our undivided attention. There was no wine left in the house.
She researched dog’s behaviours and those that would best match our family’s lifestyle (snicker—enter the dog with the least amount of energy, the shortest walks and the longest naps–pug). She looked up local kennels and their pricing should we ever need to leave him and/or abandon him forever. She created a family chore chart that has never once been adhered to or enforced and she discussed the health benefits for those suffering from anxiety, chronic illness, heart failure, lice or fatigue, that to my knowledge, no one in our house suffers from.
Good job, Ellie—let’s get a pug!
Don’t get me wrong, Wilson has been a lovely, little friend but dogs don’t come without their set of challenges.
Our first vet visit, I held my four lbs, bundle of snorts—or “Snortshauer” as he’s known to his closest friends, so excited to show him off to the world and was recited the first-meeting-vet-speech. “You’ll-want-to-feed-him-puppy-food-in-x-amounts-x-times-per-day. He’ll need a needle today for typhus and scurvy, then don’t feed him anything for 15 hours, I’m assuming he fasted this morning? He’ll need a second needle in 39 hours for ticks, my-God the ticks are bad. They’re so bad. You need this needle. You’ll want to take home these pills and give him this one in 8 days and this one in 6 days, don’t confuse them, they look identical and then 13 days after that, give him that first one again—until Christmas. There are online rebates to apply for. He needs a rabies shot, he likes peanut butter, off you go.”
Around our fourth meeting when our dog’s pill container looked like a bowl of Skittles (I figured he needs them all at some point?) we were told the horrifying news, “We can’t find Wilson’s testicles.”
My first reaction was, “We don’t assume gender in our house so, who cares?”
But apparently the vets care. They care a great deal. There are hormones and cancers and pills, more pills and you know you have to clean the flappy bit of skin above his mouth with a baby wipe and inside his ears because they’re disgusting? No. No, I did not.
We went in for several visits for operation, “Find Wilson’s Balls!” with no success, though he seemed to thoroughly enjoy the examinations.
Then yesterday, Wilson was sedated while an ultrasound expert came in (maybe by private copter) and performed some type of procedure. I’m guessing not unlike when I take my metal detector to the beach to look for diamond rings.
Good news! I got a call from the vet later in the afternoon reporting the following: Wilson’s balls were located. They were in his inguinal canal. (Exactly where I expected they would be)
More Wilson updates as he develops. Heading out for a very short walk.