We spent Easter weekend in Kansas City, celebrating the wedding of our beautiful Chelsea, my brother’s stepdaughter, to all around good guy, Lonnie. Each of those twenty-two hours in transit was worth every minute of the big weekend in KC. The rooftop ceremony was a dream, a chilly, wind-that-knocks-you-around dream, sure, and the reception provided more fun than a woman my age should be allowed. Oh yeah, you bet I sang Don’t Stop Believin’ and You’re The One That I Want with carefully choreographed, killer dance moves. And yeah, that last sentence is entirely true.
I enjoy exploring cities on foot. You catch things you wouldn’t get or take the time to appreciate passing by in your car. We encountered this amazing storefront window along our walk to the rehearsal dinner, and we scored some fantastic pizza on our way home from a hole-in-the-wall place we’d not have spotted otherwise.
But this post isn’t about our weekend wedding in Kansas City. Chelsea writes her own blog, in which I am sure she will detail their “I promise to say yes” wedding. In my little blog, I am going to tell you about the funhouse type horror that awaited us upon our return.
During our time away, Caleb, our four legged friend of infamy, was left in the care of our neighbor, Jodi. The dog was livin’ the life at our neighbor’s house. A few times a day, Jodi would send us a photo of Caleb’s oh-so-stressful time away from his beloved pack. Ha! I wasn’t sure he’d ever want to come home. Spoiled is one word for how well she cared for him; moving in and taking over may be closer to the truth of his stay.
We get home, and Jodi mentions to my husband that she noticed Caleb had been “licking himself” a lot. Yeah. We’re forced to check out Caleb’s nether region, and sure enough, his junk was a little red and inflamed. We make an appointment with the vet for Monday afternoon, and figure maybe it’s a being away from home anxiety thing or maybe it’s just a little scratch that he won’t let be. We’re prepared for the cone of shame and a 10-day run of antibiotics. We were NOT prepared for this: “Your dog has a penis infection.”
My dog has a penis infection.
Antibiotics were prescribed as anticipated, but the cone was not. No, to our horror, we learned a more invasive procedure was required to optimally treat the infection. We were directed to to insert a liquid medicinal solution. INSERT, via syringe, a liquid. INTO his penis. And when you think you’re already gonna die a thousand deaths, you not only have to insert the liquid, but also massage it around the area before flushing it out.
The vet looks at Tom and me, asking “Do you guys think you can do this?”
I’m like, “Nope.”
Vet: “Well, it will improve the likelihood that it’ll clear if you give both the antibiotics and flush his penis directly.”
Me: Sigh. Shit. “OK.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Giggle uncomfortably. Shit. Giggle some more.
We’re prescribed and purchase the two meds. Our vet directs us to dilute the solution into a gallon of distilled water, so after dropping Caleb at home, we head to the grocery store. On our way in, I look at Tom, and together we marvel at the rich pageant we call the life we’ve built together, which now includes a dog whose penis we need to massage. Well, HE needs to massage. Obviously. I mean, he has similar pieces and parts, right?
As we’re entering Pick ‘n Save, I say to Tom in mock conversation, “Oh, so what did you guys do last night? Oh us? You know, the usual. Did a little grocery shopping to pick up some special water to help us jack off our dog for the next ten days.” And because I am at times (all right, most times) extremely adolescent-like in my sense of absurdity, I laugh so hard I snort. I laughed like an idiot traipsing across the first five or six aisles.
Next afternoon, I text my friend Kathie, who is Caleb’s mother-in-law. Kathie’s daughter has determined that their dog, Nala, and Caleb are an item.
Kathie was a little disappointed that this text exchange didn’t make my previous My Life In Texts post, but I assured her that these few texts warranted a post all their own. And here we are.
Days later, an envelope arrives via US Mail. There’s no return address, but I’m 99% sure I know who mailed it before I even open it. Yep. Nala sent her boyfriend a get well card:
Sorry to hear the bad news about your penis. Wishing you well & hoping to see you soon.
All my love always,
PS–Do tell me if this is something that I need to worry about.
I couldn’t breathe. Kathie’s husband got pretty creative and sassy, and I wonder why we don’t spend more time with them because Kathie and Dan are MY KIND OF PEOPLE!
PS–Some dogs never recover from this infection. Despite medical interventions, it may be that my super special pound puppy has this burden to bear for the rest of his days. This is my life, people. Don’t be jealous.