Thursday, July 1, 2010

Paging Dr. Pocket, Dr. Pocket Dog Pocket

Well after a difficult night I think Pocket and I have come upon some good fortune. It started Saturday. We went to the groomers to be made beautiful..(I have no idea why they pay people to make us beautiful. It just happens.) While we were being groomed they went out to eat. They picked us up, we went home, we napped, and then the trouble began.

First Daddy began to play the smelly trumpet out of his butt. Then he began to lollipop and moan. Pocket and I did not pay much attention. We thought it was his regular Saturday night whining. Then, while watching Dr. Who (Spoiler alert: Van Gogh still dies in the end) he was on the floor breathing slowly with his stomach distended like he was about to have a litter and complaining that he had a dozen Matildas romping on his chest.

Mommy wanted to take him to this hospital. Daddy wanted to go to bed. I wanted to go to bed. Pocket wanted to lick her fluffy. By noon the next day it was only Pocket who would be truly satisfied.

Daddy was in bed, and Mommy was nervous. He tried to lay perfectly still like a sultry night. Breathing quite slowly. I sat next to him, licking his face, because I have no self control. Pocket, having recently become a doctor, decided to do some of her own testing, and jumped right on his stomach. Daddy let out a full blooded gawp of pain and swatted Pocket off his tummy which is no way to treat your attending physician.

Pocket went under the sheet to study her notes. I gave Daddy comforting licks then joined her for an under cover consult. Pocket reviewed her notes and said she believed Daddy was suffering from an umbilical hernia. I was quite impressed with the young Doctor. Then again, Daddy had been insisting he was not having a heart attack and had aggravated his umbilical hernia. But Pocket doesn't listen, so it is quite possible she developed this diagnosis on her own.

The lights were shut and Daddy laid there going, "whho-usssh, whoo-ussh" until he stood up and announced he was going to try to sleep downstairs in the recliner. Well this pissed me off. There is nothing I can't stand more then when the humans are getting in and out of bed all night. Daddy went down to the recliner, then on the couch, then upstairs in bed, then down again, then up again, I mean how is a Yorkie supposed to get her beauty sleep?

Then Mommy mumbled that they should go to the hospital and he would mumble no. I mumbled to Pocket if she was sure he wasn't having a heart attack. Pocket mumbled she would check and leaped on to Daddy's chest. That was the last mumbling done that night. Daddy made a noise he had never made before as he tossed Pocket off his chest. He sat up, then doubled over, grimacing in pain. "He is certainly one difficult patient," Pocket said licking her paws.

Daddy still didn't want to go, and he lay snuggled with us, until the daylight crept in the windows, and he got up, hooked up us girls, and took us out for morning business. Oh Sunday morning! Wet dew upon my piggy toes! A fine pee after a restless night. A snippet of treat before breakfast. We huddled like refugees at the bottom of the stairs and Mommy quickly snatched and dropped all her morning items in the bathroom. Then she came downstairs, as beautiful as ever, picked us up, and, hey, wait a minute, turned around and began to carry us back upstairs.

What! You're taking him to the hospital now? After Dr. Pocket made her diagnosis? Putting us upstairs in the sun time? No breakfast? No bacon table scraps? What a gyp! Mommy put Pocket in her crate and me on my blanket and left. "You can disagree with a diagnosis but you can't create modern medicine!" Pocket barked, but they were gone.

At first we were angry, then we slowly became worried, and then frantic, then tired. That was all before Mommy got Daddy in the car and on the road. I slept in the sun for awhile, woke up and smelled the door, asked Dr Pocket her opinion. She told me he would be right back here once the doctor jumped on him and pressed his toe nails in him and Daddy tossed him off his chest.

It took them for half past forever to come home. It was Daddy, walking more upright, not as sweaty, who came to get us for our pee for second breakfast. They sat down to talk. Pocket and I sat to listen. But there were squirrels and kitties outside begging us to bark at then. This is what we learned.,

Like Daddy said he has a hernia in his belly button. He's silly. And he strained it. Or he had a gall bladder attack. Dr. Pocket said this was unlikely since France hasn't attacked anyone for years.

In a couple of weeks Daddy is going to have an ultra ultra notes say ultra nerd to have ultra sound. I'm confused. Then, and this is the exciting part, Daddy is going to have an operation or two.

And this is where Dr Pocket will earn her highlights. We have gone to the Tanner Brigade Store and ordered the Tanner Brigade home aid kit. Once we know what's wrong, we'll wait for Daddy to fall asleep and then slit him open like marine biologists looking for a Yugo in the belly of a shark.

I will be there for two reasons. The first is as a scrub nurse. The second will be as my primary roll as a lawyer. I will represent Mommy after Pocket lets Daddy bleed out on the new sheets.

So, I am looking forward to this summer. This is a blog with legs. It could keep going for weeks. What's wrong with Daddy? Will he have to have an operation? Will Dr. Pocket perform it? Will Mommy be able to stop her? Who will Hattie Mae choose? And what about Wilhomenia?

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