What a way to start the week. It’s Monday morning at the park and, all of a sudden, I realize that my inveterate stick-chewing Scottish Terrier has something lodged firmly in her mouth.
Bridget’s not choking but she’s frothing at the mouth and obviously in great discomfort. She’s also doing everything in her handless power to dislodge whatever it is that’s stuck somewhere in the depths of her jaws.
I take her to the vet right opposite the park but it doesn’t open until 10 and it’s only 8:45. On the corner, I run into the father of one of my daughter’s former classmates, who’s out doing home repairs. He very kindly offers to drive me to the next closest vet, who boards our cat but doesn’t look after the dog
Within minutes, the vet and her assistant remove a chicken bone and it only costs $25, which is a veterinary bargain.
But wait, it’s too good to be true. They ding me another $35 for removing a claw on the cat five months earlier, a procedure I never approved and was not supposed to pay for. Under the circumstances, however, I just couldn’t be bothered to argue about it.
Meanwhile Bridget is fine but seems a little more tired than usual after her adventure. She’s sticking by my side instead of sitting out on the front balcony, as is her wont, and keeping tabs on what’s going on on the street.