Reasons I Fear To Breed, Part 1
The beagle has a problem with her anal glands. The little sacs are vestigial remnants of the era when the fierce beagles of the wild needed to spray noxious fluid on everything to ward off competing hounds. However, in their new suburban setting, the means by which they're supposed to empty those sacs has evolved into dust. So the glands become engorged with the foulest fluid known to man (so awful that a spot the size of a dime makes the vet tech change out of not just the lab coat but the undershirt and slacks as well), and defecating becomes itchy and painful for the dog. The sacs have to be emptied by hand. The animals usually let their human slaves know it's time to be "expressed" by this weird scooting around on the floor. There's also a certain amount of chewing their asses, emerging from said chomping with breath that could kill a rhino at fifty paces.
But that's not actually related to my fear of releasing my own little spawn. I mean, I'm not the one sticking my hand up my dog's ass to relieve the pressure, I pay a nice lady with a fancy degree from a veterinary school to do it.
No, what convinced me that this was not my decade to conceive was this episode:
After watching my beagle scoot around for a few days last winter, I called the vet and made an appointment for an expression and a bath. (The bath part after an expression isn't really OPTIONAL, and I figure, hell, they already have her in the sink.) I got up a little earlier than normal on the morning of the appointment so I'd have time to drop her off. I got out a special chewie treat to lure my little sloth of a canine into the car. When I got on the road, I took special care to remember to take the exit for the vet's office instead of my office. I kept the stereo down at about half the normal volume so as to not damage her tender beagle ears. Once off the highway and on the correct side street, I shifted to the left lane a few turns before the vet's office, so as to be prepared for the turn. I even reached back and petted her at each traffic light, to reassure her that I was there and she was going to be fine. (She, like my mate, is not an intrepid explorer and does not care for travel. She likes meals on time, her own bed, and having a familiar place to crap. The man and the dog understand each other very well, and they both look at me like I'm insane when I suggest adventures more than three hours away.) Basically, I did everything to ensure there would be no missed turns, time lost to backtracking, and so forth.
Due to all the careful precautions and skillful planning, I arrived at work without being at all late despite the errand. Pleased with myself, I turned off the car, grabbed the laptop in its sleek leather case, and hopped out of the car. I'd almost made it inside, when I realized I might have left an unopened can of soda in the car. It was a frightfully cold day, and I was a little concerned about it bursting all over the cloth seats, so I went back to my vehicle. I looked through the window to see if there was anything in the cupholder.
Two big brown eyes, framed by floppy ears, stared back at me.
I had forgotten to drop off the dog.
But that's not actually related to my fear of releasing my own little spawn. I mean, I'm not the one sticking my hand up my dog's ass to relieve the pressure, I pay a nice lady with a fancy degree from a veterinary school to do it.
No, what convinced me that this was not my decade to conceive was this episode:
After watching my beagle scoot around for a few days last winter, I called the vet and made an appointment for an expression and a bath. (The bath part after an expression isn't really OPTIONAL, and I figure, hell, they already have her in the sink.) I got up a little earlier than normal on the morning of the appointment so I'd have time to drop her off. I got out a special chewie treat to lure my little sloth of a canine into the car. When I got on the road, I took special care to remember to take the exit for the vet's office instead of my office. I kept the stereo down at about half the normal volume so as to not damage her tender beagle ears. Once off the highway and on the correct side street, I shifted to the left lane a few turns before the vet's office, so as to be prepared for the turn. I even reached back and petted her at each traffic light, to reassure her that I was there and she was going to be fine. (She, like my mate, is not an intrepid explorer and does not care for travel. She likes meals on time, her own bed, and having a familiar place to crap. The man and the dog understand each other very well, and they both look at me like I'm insane when I suggest adventures more than three hours away.) Basically, I did everything to ensure there would be no missed turns, time lost to backtracking, and so forth.
Due to all the careful precautions and skillful planning, I arrived at work without being at all late despite the errand. Pleased with myself, I turned off the car, grabbed the laptop in its sleek leather case, and hopped out of the car. I'd almost made it inside, when I realized I might have left an unopened can of soda in the car. It was a frightfully cold day, and I was a little concerned about it bursting all over the cloth seats, so I went back to my vehicle. I looked through the window to see if there was anything in the cupholder.
Two big brown eyes, framed by floppy ears, stared back at me.
I had forgotten to drop off the dog.
posted by Sanya at 10:19 PM
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