The Foley Monster is outraged! She is flummoxed! She is appalled!
On Monday Pocket and I went to the vets for our yearly check up. We had decided, as a family, that the main health care issue we would discuss is Pocket’s persistent peeing. That was it! Sure, we’d get poked, prodded, maybe even jabbed, you have to expect these things, but then we’d move on to the problem pisser.
I went first. I weigh a magnificent 7.25 pounds. I’m a round, mean, fighting machine. The dogtor came in, read that I was nine years of age, and complimented me on how young I looked and how spry I acted. Well, I work out, I spend about an hour under the blanket putting my whiskers on. I mean all this doesn’t just happen!
Then he began to touch and prod. He was kind of ticklish. I put up with it. I can be a glutton for attention. Everything was just perfect; swab of the ears, beautiful; one little shot in the butt, not too bad.
Mommy was at the head of the table, closely supervising, making sure I wasn’t mistreated. Daddy was sitting in a chair holding Pocket with his arms extended towards me. Pocket was craning her neck, looking, sniffing, very curious about what procedure I was enduring.
Then Daddy talked. I specifically remember him being told not to talk. No one needed him to talk. Why Mommy taught him how to talk escapes me. He said: “she has some tartar build up on her teeth.” Oh I turned and gave him a look. Talk about my ta-ta’s will he? The Dogtor then opened my mouth, stuck his entire bulbous head inside, and told him he was right. I did have tartar.
“Let me get my gruesome instrument of extreme pain and torture,” the dogtor said. He got this sharp thingy, and then everyone, even Pocket, jumped on me, and Dr. Horrible again inserted his bulbous head into my mouth and began to scrape my ta-ta’s. You have no idea pain until you’ve had your ta-ta’s scraped while being held down by two men, two women, and a Yorkie.
Finally the torture stopped (but will my dignity ever return?) and I was handed to Daddy Judas while the dogtor took Pocket.
Normally I would spend the next day and a half in a snit but I had been waiting for this for weeks. The dogtor began to poke and prod Pocket. She got three jabs, and even the spray in the nose (and did not sneeze, very impressive but don’t tell her I said so.) Then came the moment I had been waiting for.
Mommy told the Dogtor about Pocket's persistent peeing problem. What would he suggest? A surgery? Pills that need to be forced down her throat? He asked questions. Does she pee in bed? No. In her crate? No. In a chair sitting with you? No. He then came to his conclusion:
"I think she's an excitable pee-er. She's just being herself."
Excuse me? You think she's just being herself? Oh that's unique. Yes. And when Tiger Woods slams his car full of Swedish models into a Mariachi Band I suppose that's just Tiger being Tiger. An excited pee-er. And I'm a frustrated masturbater but when I hump a stuffed animal nobody says it's just Foley being Foley.
Then they start to talk about litter box training her. Yes. That ought to class up the joint. A box of piss in the living room. Then we can just put the toilet between the recliners and bodily function our way completely through American Idol.
I was starting to get my mojo back as we were leaving the examining room, they were talking about my fluffy tail and my wonderfully curly tongue when the dogtor said he had one suggestion. Thank God. The man of science would now make sense. Pills? Spanking? A mean spirited trainer with a British accent?
"Foley is in excellent health," he said. Yes I am, more treats for me! "She is very strong!" That's right, time to reward me with a trained sister? "Why don't you make an appointment, bring her in, we'll give her a light anesthesia and do a teeth cleaning and possible extraction."
A teeth cleaning? We came here to fix a problem pisser and now I'm getting knocked out to get my teeth brushed? How the hell did that happen?
Sometime in the summer I'm going to have to go to the dogtor for a day to get my teeth cleaned and you know why? Because, when people come over, and see the box of piss, and the pee stains on the rug, their attention will be diverted by my long, curly tongue, my wonderful tail, and my shiny white teeth.
So it's come to this. Nine years of living an exemplary life and I'm nothing but a beard for an immature pup with a house wetting issues.
Please, years, and years, and even more years from now, when I'm at the bridge, remember me as I was before I became nothing more than a diversion to cover for bad house training.