I never had a pet as kid. I was the youngest of 5 kids and my mom wasn't the most patient person. She made it clear that she had done all the parenting she was going to do - like Scouts, school plays, piano lessons, sleepovers, and pets - with my preceding siblings.
I'm not sure that the “pets” my brothers and sister had really count, though. Turtles forgotten, and found months later under the couch, the usual dead and flushable goldfish, or the dreadful guinea pig that squealed whenever someone opened the fridge (7 people in one house open the fridge A LOT). To this day I cringe at any whining, keening, or high-pitched screaming. And it was an albino, with creepy pink-rimmed red eyes and very sharp teeth.
Motherhood
Fast-forward 40 years. My husband and I have an 8 year old Jack Russell Terrier named Spingi (pronounced “spin-gee” - which is a little Italian donut). We don't have any kids, but I consider myself Spingi's mom. And as the “mom”, it's up to me to do all the “icky” stuff - like clean the goop out of his eyes, give him a bath (cleaning the poop and pee holes, of course), and clean up after he pukes on the carpet.
So last week I notice - cause who else but a mom looks at her kids butt-hole - that he's got something “growing” next to his poop chute. At first we thought “hemorrhoid” (do dogs even get hemorrhoids?), but then as it started to grow we thought maybe “tick”. But by the second day, when it was the size of a lemon-drop (little dog, remember), I called the vet and took him in.
Turned out he had an “anal abscess”. I guess male dogs have these weird glands “down there” that can get infected if they are not “expressed” regularly (okay - gross). In 8 years he never had a problem and I never even heard of that, so there you go.
The vet explains that she lanced and drained the abscess and I can take him home, give him some pain meds and antibiotics and he'll be fine. Great! So I pick him up and $180 later we're out the door. His rear-end is covered and matted in blood, and the growth-with-a-big-hole-in-it is leaking and oozing down his leg.
In the car, I wisely put a towel on my lap - my baby is hurt and I can't expect him to sit anywhere but on my lap! But he's squirming around so much his butt smears blood and goo all over my light blue sweater and across my seat belt strap. Nice. He keeps standing up trying to stick his head out the window, and every time he does, the towel gets knocked off my lap. More blood and goo on my pants. Oh, well - it'll wash out.
The Long and Winding Road
We live in the mountains and are about a half-hour from town, up a long and winding two-lane road. And by the time we get about a mile from our house, Spingi starts to go a little crazy. He's literally trying to crawl out the window. I'm trying to hold on to his collar to keep him from launching himself into the road, steering with one hand, when this road really requires two for all the twists and turns, trying to stay in my own lane around blind curves, and now there's another car right on my tail.
Spingi is whining and keening (my favorite thing!) and really putting up a struggle as I try my damndest not to run us off the side of the cliff, when I finally get it…. and start to panic. HE HAS TO POOP! But the house is in site - there it is! Just one more “S” curve, down the driveway and we're home free!
Alas, it was not to be. Just as the woman behind me honks her horn, and a redneck in a pick-up (do they drive anything else?) whooshes by me going the other way, barely missing my side-view mirror as I veer across the double yellow, Spingi lets loose with a mountain of poop, the texture of melted soft-serve ice cream.
I can tell he feels ashamed, but I feel worse - and smell worse. Why didn't I listen to the warning whine? I'm sure I could have pulled over somewhere and avoided all this mess, but what do I know? I'm not a mother!
