Our Little Fellas

There was a time, not so long ago, I actually looked forward to taking our little dogs to the veterinarian hospital we've so long frequented, for their annual check-up and vaccinations. For their part, they were never eager to go, but had no say in the matter. It was for their benefit, for the good of their health, to keep on top of the yearly evaluations and the shots. They endured, helplessly, at our side. And we comforted them as best we could, throughout the process.

First, our now 14-year-old Button had experienced a dreadful reaction to her combined rabies-parvovirus shot when she was very young. That was during off-office times, and we had to rush her to the 24-hour emergency hospital downtown. That was costly, but it saved her life. Then, when she was still only 7 months old, we had her neutered. She has a long and active memory. These were memorable occurrences to her, and she has developed a long, unforgiving memory.

For his part, Riley, now 7 years old, had enough unfortunate occurrences. Impacted glands that had to be squeezed out without benefit of anaesthetic at the emergency veterinarian. Again, after hours. One occasion when he screamed in pain at something having caught in his throat, when we rushed him there again, to find it had subsided and the examining veterinarian could discover nothing physically amiss.

Then his neutering at our usual veterinarian hospital, which had him stay overnight, just as Button had, so many years earlier. She had been relatively stout-minded about her ordeal; he had been devastated, and for the following two days whimpered constantly, stabbing at our hearts. And finally, the occasion when we realized he had a fat-comprised tumour steadily growing under his back left leg. Submitting him to surgery when it had reached the size of a baseball.

So when they realize we are parking the car at a certain spot, they express their despair and fear audibly, pathetically. We try to stem their fears, and control their trembling expectations of disaster, murmuring comforting promises of release. We wait patiently after their weighing-in, then are ushered, all four of us, into the waiting room. This is a routine visit. A thorough physical for Riley, along with his annual leptosporosis shot. It's also time for his once-every-three-years rabies shot.

The veterinarian is kind, gentle and understanding, and eventually Riley stops trembling under his capable, searching hands. All seems well, and he's given a clean bill of health. The scars from his surgery barely visible; he healed quickly and well. And he's stoic when he's undergoing the two shots. Soon back in our arms, and then it's Button's turn.

She is nervous and high-strung about this assault on her dignity. She has no wish to submit herself to the quick examination, but she is half-cradled in her owner's arms, and she settles down to the ordeal. Which she speedily determines is anything but, yet is still reluctant to gladly lend herself to the probing. She too receives her annual leptosporosis shot. A short, amiable discussion follows with the veterinarian.

The heart murmur that he had detected at the last examination is no longer there. He had been concerned; at her age it could be indicative of some serious physical deterioration. She is in superb physical condition. Her hearing loss at low decibel sound is normal enough for her age. Although there is some hardening of the lens of her eyes, her eyesight is not really compromised very much.

We discuss their diet, their daily exercise rituals. Shampoos, particularly medicinal shampoos, to cope with Button's congenital but slight problem with dry skin. She's a miniature poodle, and he's a toy poodle, but there is only a one-and-a-half pound difference between them. Despite that he is given a bare one-third of the amount of food she gets. Different metabolisms. He no longer is willing to leap and jump, fearful of the consequences.

So we lift him everywhere. Despite which, we tell the vet, when we were out in the mountains with them this spring and later again in the early fall, doing some mountain climbing, when he's out there, he seems to forget. And surprises us, and perhaps himself too, with ambitious leaps from one rock to another, fear forgotten, reacting to the natural environment, suddenly sure of himself.

Our veterinarian asks after our daughter. He had also looked after the welfare of her seven dogs, before she moved. We've known him over a decade, yet he looks so young. And he's capable, and he cares. And who knew he had two daughters, 9 and 12, and worries about their speed in achieving tween- and teen-ship?