Ruby, one of my much-loved Bichons, has been sailing pretty close to the metaphorical wind as far as illness and accidents are concerned this year. So far she has racked up nine visits to the vet with another two months still to go. I’m keeping a tight hold on my wallet just in case she gets another unexplained infection or tries to jump onto a bed that is three times higher than her fat little body can take her.
It hasn’t all been minor stuff that has required a quick visit and a couple of tablets. Oh no. It’s been major knee surgery after my son decided to put her on a bed when he was told not to and she decided that it would be a fine idea to take a flying leap to go and bark at nothing at the front door. Another unexplained poisoning of sorts resulted in the entire underside from her chest to her tail being covered by black and blue bruising. Both of these occasions culminated in days at the vet hospital and thousands of dollars going into the vet’s new-car fund. Other visits were an assortment of ailments from bladder infections to a cough and a collapsing trachea. We haven’t even gotten to the annual end-of-year vaccination and worming yet.
Understandably she has developed a paranoia whenever she has to go in the car anywhere just in case she ends up at that awful place where they poke things in her nether regions and make her eat inferior-quality food on sleepovers. She was so glad to get out of there last time that she dragged me all the way to the car without a sniff or a doggy pit stop at the local signpost.
Her brother, Angus, who I take along for questionable moral support is equally if not more anxious than Ruby even though nothing is ever happening to him. He howls as soon as we walk into the vet’s office and doesn’t stop until he has hightailed it out of there, is in the car and is at least ten minutes down the road.
At least he hasn’t cost us as much as his sister this year. Touch wood.