My New Home at the Neighborhood Vet

Maybe I should just sleep at the vet. I'm there all the time. I could not live without Flanders--she's one hell of a pooch. But I swear, every five minutes she needs to go to the vet. She's always had a plethora of skin problems, who could forget Gary the head lump with its own personality (see post op from a few years ago at left), a lump on her behind, and most recently, two ear hematomas that have taken the two of us to the far reaches of sanity.

The dog doesn't have a flea on her and has allergy shots every three seconds. But she hasn't stopped scratching in the past 9 days. So this morning's visit to the neighborhood vet (barely $100--thank goodness) sent me home with six, yes SIX, different medications for what is apparently a fungus/ mite infection on her skin. Gross.

The old man vet is a trip. The office looks like a rat hole, but everyone there is super nice and the vet has been practicing since before Christ. One time he gave me a friendly lecture about how I shouldn't be a vegetarian because he doesn't know any vegetarians past the age of 50...and therefore, vegetarians don't live past the age of 50. Hmmm. If it were anywhere else, I would be greatly offended. But given the humor of the unorthodox medical advice from a dog/cat doc and given the heartfelt place of its origin, I just smiled.

I know Flanders will totally dig me shoving 2 different pills down her throat, adding another crumbled pill in her bowl, dropping some rancid liquid from a mysterious homeopathic looking bottle in her mouth, spraying her with something that resembles 409, and sponging her with yet another concoction. She's probably thinking, "Honestly. I was better off on the street. Why did I go with this crazy person 10+ years ago?"