Today, I took The Dog for his rabies shot. The Dog HATES shots. He REALLY HATES The Vet. I would too, if someone talked to me like I was a woodland creature suddenly propelled out of my forest home and on to a kind of afternoon kiddies program featuring a guy in a lab coat wearing a pair of Crocs waving a hypo-dermic needle in his hand.
Because of this non-sympathetic relationship betwixt Dog & Vet, I have to dupe The Dog with... Hey, Moses! Let's go for a ride in the car! Waddyasay? The Dog, hearing the key words... ride in the car... immediately foresakes the woolen warmth of his upstairs bed to trot-down with me to the garage for that ride in the car! Waddyasay?
The ruse doesn't last long. No sooner have I steered the car towards an uphill street driving past the Carabinieri station than The Dog starts to whimper & whine. He's on to me. It gets worse at the right turn into the parking lot... crowded with about 100 too many motor-scooters. It becomes simply unbearable when I park the car!!!... in a space designed for a motor-scooter. The ones for cars are filled with those 100 extra scooters. That's Italy.
I try to be cheerful & positive. The Dog, instead, wants to flee which, he does as soon as the back hatch of the car is opened. He refuses to answer to his name, nor does he even bother to look back. He just goes as fast and as furiously as his arthritic Weimaraner legs can take him... far away from where he is... in an over-crowded parking lot in the suburbs of Genoa.
Once caught & reprimanded... in English. I'd do it in German, The Dog's natural tongue but, all I know is Ich bin ein Berliner... we enter the Waiting Room for Our Vet to appear. In the meantime, The Dog kick-starts again that awful whimper & whining & fleeing. Have you ever heard Weimaraner nails try to gain traction on a marble flooring? You don't. Thank God, the door is tightly shut.
Our Vet appears!!! Fond greetings are extended & received all around & off we go to the Examining Room. Well, the Dott. & I head towards it, The Dog scratches with all fours for the Utility Room... in the opposite direction. I think The Dog expresses little discretion for his choices to flee to.
Anyway, once caught & dragged... in Italian... to the Examining Room, securing the door behind me, the escapade of getting The Dog up on the Examining Table for his shot begins. It's not a very interesting story. The Dog tries to get down and The Vet & I try to stop him. Have you ever held a Weimaraner intent on being anywhere but on a table at the Vet's? Even the bone chilling temperatures & snow of Iowa would be good to The Dog at this point. So, I have to employ Dupe Numero 2... Behave, Dog, and I'll give you an extra ration of bread. Give him the shot Doc!!!
Shot done. The visit paid for. We're back at home in 20 minutes. And, You-know-who goes to the Kitchen to await his Mighty Reward... in the Weimaraner seated position. Gads.
Because of this non-sympathetic relationship betwixt Dog & Vet, I have to dupe The Dog with... Hey, Moses! Let's go for a ride in the car! Waddyasay? The Dog, hearing the key words... ride in the car... immediately foresakes the woolen warmth of his upstairs bed to trot-down with me to the garage for that ride in the car! Waddyasay?
The ruse doesn't last long. No sooner have I steered the car towards an uphill street driving past the Carabinieri station than The Dog starts to whimper & whine. He's on to me. It gets worse at the right turn into the parking lot... crowded with about 100 too many motor-scooters. It becomes simply unbearable when I park the car!!!... in a space designed for a motor-scooter. The ones for cars are filled with those 100 extra scooters. That's Italy.
I try to be cheerful & positive. The Dog, instead, wants to flee which, he does as soon as the back hatch of the car is opened. He refuses to answer to his name, nor does he even bother to look back. He just goes as fast and as furiously as his arthritic Weimaraner legs can take him... far away from where he is... in an over-crowded parking lot in the suburbs of Genoa.
Once caught & reprimanded... in English. I'd do it in German, The Dog's natural tongue but, all I know is Ich bin ein Berliner... we enter the Waiting Room for Our Vet to appear. In the meantime, The Dog kick-starts again that awful whimper & whining & fleeing. Have you ever heard Weimaraner nails try to gain traction on a marble flooring? You don't. Thank God, the door is tightly shut.
Our Vet appears!!! Fond greetings are extended & received all around & off we go to the Examining Room. Well, the Dott. & I head towards it, The Dog scratches with all fours for the Utility Room... in the opposite direction. I think The Dog expresses little discretion for his choices to flee to.
Anyway, once caught & dragged... in Italian... to the Examining Room, securing the door behind me, the escapade of getting The Dog up on the Examining Table for his shot begins. It's not a very interesting story. The Dog tries to get down and The Vet & I try to stop him. Have you ever held a Weimaraner intent on being anywhere but on a table at the Vet's? Even the bone chilling temperatures & snow of Iowa would be good to The Dog at this point. So, I have to employ Dupe Numero 2... Behave, Dog, and I'll give you an extra ration of bread. Give him the shot Doc!!!
Shot done. The visit paid for. We're back at home in 20 minutes. And, You-know-who goes to the Kitchen to await his Mighty Reward... in the Weimaraner seated position. Gads.
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