Monday, July 27, 2020

There's A Stranger In Our Jeep

Dusty Quinn
It all started with my leg.  It hurt when I put my paw down, so I kept my back leg up and limped along.  I was willing to adjust, my old girl human not so much.  She poked and prodded at my paw pads, maneuvered my leg into positions I didn’t know possible, stopped letting me run up and down the deck steps and gave me turmeric with a little butter.  She said turmeric was good for inflammation and safe for me.   I’d eat anything, good or bad, that was topped with butter.   After a few days of turmeric and being toted up and down the stairs, my leg felt a little better and my limp wasn’t so bad, but she made an appointment with the vet anyway.  She’s a bit of a worrywart. 

Okay, we’re in the parking lot, the engine is turned off, I’m hopping up and down in my travel seat, but we’re not getting out of the car.  My old girl is on her cell phone announcing our arrival, talking about my limp – who the heck is she talking to?  Why is she putting on that mask?   Someone’s coming. They’re talking to my girl.  Now they’re moving around the car, opening the door by my back seat, looping a leash over my head, putting arms around me. She’s lifting me out!  Why isn’t my always on top of everything human paying attention?  Does she know there’s a stranger in our Jeep?  HELP!  I’M BEING KIDNAPPED!  HELP!


Wish I could explain these odd circumstances, this very different trip to the veterinarian, to my little Dusty.  The Covid-19 pandemic has rearranged our lives.  It’s gratifying to live in a community that is taking this virus seriously, but at the same time we’re all longing to resume our old us.  For now, I announce our arrival on my cell and go over Dusty’s symptoms.  A very sweet masked tech approaches our Jeep in the parking lot and escorts him into the clinic.  I stay in the car.   After a while, the masked doc comes out, stands at a distance and discusses his findings with a masked me.   Dusty is fine, likely a slight inflammation that’s clearing up.  “Continue to keep him off the steps for a few days and I’m sending him home with an anti-inflammatory. Call if you don’t see continued improvement.”  Our car side consult is complete.  My cell rings.  It’s the vet’s front desk.  They take my credit card number and quickly send an email receipt.   Masked tech returns and gently places Dusty back in his travel seat.  “He’s a sweetheart,” she says.  She’s followed by another friendly masked person who hands a prescription through the car window and explains dosing.  Backing out of our space, I notice two other cars in the parking lot both drivers masked, waiting their turn.  I don’t know whether to weep with sadness or give a thumbs up in appreciation.

While she’s getting all emotional, I’m just glad to be in my travel seat.  I’ve never been to the vet by myself.  I didn’t like it, wanted my old girl there with me stroking my head, holding me close.  I’m so excited to hear her voice saying it’s OK, telling me we’re heading home to see my buddies Abner and Will.  And I’m really happy there’s no sign of a stranger in our Jeep.