Daisy apparently didn’t get the memo that I went back to school and am working part-time. She thinks expensive medicals tests are a hobby. They so, so aren’t.
The vet clinic didn’t get the memo that a vodka tonic is the epitome of a refreshing drink. As for me? Well I didn’t get the memo that when the receptionist asks you if you would like a refreshing drink she means a warm Sprite, not a bottle of vodka and straw. Another refreshing drink is champagne, which should always be served immediately after informing a worried dog owner that her beloved pug is cancer-free. Daisy does, however, have a a sludge-filled gallbladder, major food allergies and irritable bowel syndrome.
The vet called her a little shit for giving us such a scare. I called the vet a big shit when he told me to keep an ass journal for Daisy. Apparently he’d like to read about the consistency of Daisy’s feces while enjoying a nightcap with his wife. I’d much rather get him a subscription to an interesting magazine, but whatever floats his boat, and keeps my dog alive.
While I’m thrilled there’s nothing serious wrong with her, I’m realistic enough to know we’re in for the long haul here. Daisy’s disgusting farts aren’t going anywhere. And neither is my love for her, although my savings account is. My fart filled apartment has never felt more like home. I’m happy to have the little shit back, but if anyone has any information on the market for one-eyed pug porn let me know. Daisy needs a job. And preferebly one with health benefits.