Took the family to the Vets yesterday.
Not that it wouldn’t be entirely out of place for our little band of 5 to require those particular medical services, but no, this trip was in honour of the newest addition to the ranks- Chester the dog.
Mostly of unknown origin (he was an RSPCA rescue pet) we think he is of Shih Tzu descent (with the regular Heinz variety thrown in for good measure), about 2 years old (maybe more, judging by his lack of teeth, but that could be from the ‘affections’ of the *previous owner). He is also the sookiest little furball I’ve ever encountered (again, remnants of the above*). And he is, we have discovered, allergic to fleas.
Given our geographical location, and the early onset of summer, you have no idea what joy that brings (it’s the gift that keeps on giving).
With temperatures soaring into the 40s I decided the furry little monster needed another haircut, so took to him with a pair of scissors last weekend (leaving enough fluffy stuff lying around for Dr Frankenstein to create an entirely new creature, should the desire strike him). This is how I discovered his whole-body aversion to fleas. Even just one of the little suckers will do it.
Being a good (if not reluctant) pet owner, I booked him in for a total health check up, and annual vaccination. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, the children insisted on tagging along. This is how our entire family came to be perched on two plastic chairs in the Vet’s waiting room, trying to break up the stare-offs and sniffing contests that ensued with other pending patients. Not to mention apologizing for the piddle puddles (boys will be boys, even if they don’t have all the ‘toys’, if you know what I’m saying).
Two hours and $186.02 later (good lord, I don’t spend that much money on myself!) it was home-again home-again jiggedy jig with a 3 month supply of flea/tick treatment, a bottle of specially-medicated shampoo, and 3 weeks of antibiotics in the form of 42 not-so-little white pills.
As I am always thinking of others, I thought it fair to share with you. I have previously posted my experiences with washing the dog (see Doggone It) so you can imagine the fun I’ll be having twice a week for the next 4. And so I will cut to the chase and present “Jo’s Guide to Dosing your Dog” (also applies to cats, with an additional warning/step of applying full-body armour to avoid the subsequent scratches).
Consider it my contribution to the pet-owning community … and my mother’s calendar of entertainment.
1. Get tablets
2. Get gloves
3. Get dog
Now, anyone when has ever attempted this knows all too well that numbers 1 & 2 combined can take a lot less time than number 3. Especially if the dog in question has been subjected to the pill popping process before. I have also found from previous personal experience that surprisingly, large dogs are easier to catch and hold than small dogs. Unfortunately, due to a paralysis tick, we have been forced to trade our large dog for a small one. :-(
4. Find a comfortable position (NOTE TO SELF: squatting down on the floor does not meet the criteria: little dogs can generate a great deal of forward momentum, and face planting is no fun for anyone)
5. Get dog
6. Firmly park backside on floor (can’t fall too far from there)
7. Put on gloves (MENTAL NOTE: probably should move this one up a few numbers)
8. Get dog
9. Wrap legs around dog
10. Using gloved hands, tilt dog’s head back and open mouth (the dog’s that is, yours is best screwed up tight, with or without lips between teeth to aid concentration)
11. Holding tablet between two fingertips, gingerly poke into dog’s mouth, in general vicinity of throat
12. Hold dog’s mouth closed
13. Release dog’s jaw
14. Pick up saliva-coated tablet from floor (not as simple as it sounds, I can assure you)
15. Get dog
16. Attempt to repeat numbers 9 to 11, poking pill further down back of throat (trying to avoid gag reflex for both dog and self at same time).
If successful, again move through numbers 12 & 13.
17. Providing there is no remnants of tablet within visible range, carefully release dog and prepare for small furry object ricocheting across the floor
18. Remove gloves, wash hands thoroughly (resist urge to use bleach) and follow with antibacterial rub for good measure
19. Refrain from cursing Veterinarian as you repeat steps 1 through 18 twice daily for the next three weeks.
I tell you, next time the kids ask for a pet, I’m going to recommend a rock.
Jx
©2009
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Doggone it
If there’s one smell I cannot stand it is damp dog.
No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.
After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.
Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.
Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).
With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.
As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.
After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.
There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).
After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.
At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.
I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.
Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.
At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.
Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.
How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?
Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.
I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).
At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).
But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.
Jx
©2009
No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.
After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.
Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.
Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).
With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.
As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.
After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.
There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).
After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.
At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.
I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.
Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.
At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.
Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.
How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?
Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.
I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).
At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).
But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Good Morning...Let the Stress Begin!
Whoever said that Motherhood is not a fulltime job has never seen it from where I stand…
Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”
And so begins another day.
Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.
On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.
So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…
After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.
And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”
After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.
Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!
Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.
And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!
Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.
Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!
Jx
©2009
Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”
And so begins another day.
Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.
On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.
So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…
After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.
And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”
After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.
Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!
Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.
And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!
Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.
Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!
Jx
©2009
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