The Ruby Rose Report: My Parent's Get a Good Report at the Vet

On Thursday I had a vet check up.

While I was being poked and prodded I realized I was nothing but the middle dog. 

They talked like the appointment was about me, but it wasn’t. A vet checkup is to judge our parents.

I came to this realization while I was being weighed, and my parents were congratulated that I lost a pound, that I had no control over my weight. I am neither a hunter or a gatherer. I am an eater and a digester. If I was allowed to eat what I wanted, and not have to survive in the wild, I would weigh two hundred pounds.

“Are you giving heartworm medication?” my parents were asked, and the tech was told that they did.

“That is good,” the tech said.

Frankly, I wasn’t even aware I was taking any heartworm medication. It might be the special treat that I get once a month and  tastes chalky, but I don’t mind. I lost a pound in a year. I am starving here!

 Then  they were asked about flea and tick medication, which I get sometimes, but since I am not out often they sometimes forget.

And the tech wrote sometime down on the pad.

Was their carelessness about flea and tick medication going to affect my chances at getting a squeaky toy when this ordeal was over.

Then came the doctor with her poking, prodding, and  probing. She said my teeth, coat, and eyes were good. I was back in the running for the squeaky toy.

Then came the assault and battery.

I got a pinch in the leg, a poke in the butt, and puff in the nose.

It was the way Indians in the midwest greeted the settlers, which kept the white men east of the Mississippi until the winter when  most of the women died and the Yankees crossed the river in search of living space and Indian strange.

Then after I had been violated in every hole I had my parents judgment was over, and they had passed, thanks to me keeping taut and healthy.

And I got a squeaky toy.

It is the least they could do after I made the humans look so good.