Instead of carpeting the upstairs of the house, I had grass fragments removed from the dogs’ ears.
I can’t say I enjoyed the grass removals as much as I might have enjoyed having carpet to walk on. I had picked out a lovely stripy pattern that wouldn’t show the dirt, and was really looking forward to not slashing my feet with splinters every time I stepped out of bed on to bare floorboards.
But then Cydney and Poppy managed to coordinate the shoving of razor-sharp pieces of vegetation down their lugholes, hospitalising themselves just a week apart.
Cydney was first, dashing around the green outside the house and diving headlong through the frazzled undergrowth, burnt to a crisp by the heatwave, then coming out with her tail between her legs. She shook her head and held it on one side. I knew that had to mean at least £200. A quick once-over produced a near-hysterical squeal when I got to feeling behind her right ear. And so off we went to the vets, not the nearest one because that has a silly name. It is called Voo, with four splodges over the V to make it look like a dog’s paw.
This is cute, but ultimately makes me suspect they are operating on the premise that I’m a moron. And that makes me worry they may be apt to charge me more than a vet that hasn’t corporately rebranded itself to sound cuddly and non-threatening.
‘Can oo take a look at my doggy-doo, who has got wonky-ear-achey-woo?’ I am no doubt meant to say when I walk through the door of Voo. Not: ‘Please remove this grass seed, clean her teeth and aspirate a fluid sample from that pimple while she’s under so I can get maximum value out of the sedation, and before you start all that, kindly jab the other one with her booster on the same consul charge, thank you.
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