Everybody has a thing. I’ll go ahead and start with one of mine: my teeth. I am seriously disturbed by my teeth being messed with, or even the potential of feeling pain through my teeth. I absolutely ABHOR dentists (especially the ones that charge a lot – insult to injury), and I get overwhelming, nauseating chills if I even think about hitting my teeth on anything. If ever I trip or even just stumble, I feel overwhelming tingles down my spine and goosebumps at the thought of my teeth hitting concrete. I’m grossing myself out RIGHT NOW as I type. BLECH.
My husband – don’t touch his calves. They’re ticklish/painful and he WILL kick you. Sorry, massage therapist.
Here’s another example, however less dramatic it might be. My mom absolutely cannot bend her toes to save her life, and so if you go to massage her feet, she tenses up around the toes. I’m telling you this as an example and also just to make all the mothers out there jealous that I am a GOOD DAUGHTER and I voluntarily massage my mom’s feet. Ladies, step up your mother-pampering game.
Sydney, bless her heart (reads: oh my god what is wrong with her), has a serious problem with her little hiney hole. That’s right – her sphincter. Now, I’m not down there messin’ around with that particular part of my beloved canine, but seeing as how she does not wear clothing, it’s kind of just “hanging out there,” so to speak. I only know about her aversion to all things butt because of two absolutely hilarious instances.
Last Saturday, we went to the Veterinarian in our little country town for Sydney’s final round of shots. I’m not a huge fan of vaccinations, but as wild as she is, and as country as we live, she benefits from them. This visit was our first time at this particular vet. We waited for a hot minute in the outer seating area, watched other dogs and cats come in and out, and finally got called into our examination room. The vet technician was absolutely adorable (in the words of a (step)mother, “You should meet my son!”) and very sweet with Sydney. She asked all kinds of pertinent questions – what does she eat, how active is she, does she have any problems, health or behavioral or otherwise, blah blah blah. We chatted dog-talk and then she got out some tools to take Sydney’s vitals: a scale; a stethoscope; and a thermometer.
So far, in our other visits to other vets, we seemed to have skipped over the temperature part of the examination. I never thought about it – I mostly wanted to know how much my growing little piggy weighed. So Sydney was leisurely lounging on the exam room floor, eating treats, enjoying a good rub-down while the technician listened to her heart, and then the tech attempted to start the temperature reading process. As soon as she reached for Sydney’s tail and started to insert the thermometer, my dog cried out and began wailing and moaning – basically screaming bloody murder. I had never heard her make any noise like that before and at first it took me aback. I thought she was in real pain – that’s sure what is sounded like! But then I started laughing, because – come on, nobody’s hurting her. And butts are funny.
I hugged/held Sydney by the midsection while the tech attempted to insert the thermometer again, just for her to continue her loud protest. It was pathetic and hilarious. I attempted a logical conversation with her, told her (out loud, because, tell me you don’t actually talk to your animals), “Girlfriend, it’s just a butthole. Calm down.” My husband started laughing (the technician, too), and when she left the room he says, “Did I ever tell you the story about Sydney and the hair in her poop?” My response: I think I’d remember something like that.
Apparently, when Sydney was maybe 2 or 3 months old, my husband took her outside to relieve herself. She popped a squat to drop a deuce (reads: take a #2, a crap, a poo), and when she went to walk away, she started screaming (he said, just like she did with the thermometer), as if she was seriously injured. He ran out into the yard barefoot to try and help or console her and she ran away, but still in a semi-squatty position. He. Was. Confused. And then he saw it – a dingleberry, a little ball of doggy doo, hanging from a long hair, presumably mine. Sydney continued to wail and cry and attempt a squat-run as Ernie chased her with a stick to try and remove the afflicting issue. Finally, he got the hair around the stick and tugged it away, as she gave one final terrified scream and ran to the house.
Guys, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.
So, in summation, I just wrote a blog post about my dog’s anus. You’re welcome.