Downward Headed Dog

When I retire, I might want to live in a city.  Big towns fascinate me.  I love to visit.  Lots of times I wish I lived in one.  Lots of times I'm glad I don't.  My only plans for retirement so far are to live somewhere with trees and rain.  That's it.  Although I'm considering adding one other requirement to the list:  a yoga studio.  I cannot imagine living in the vicinity of an actual yoga studio.  That is just the height of  decadent existence as far as I'm concerned.

Some day maybe I will live near a yoga studio.  And maybe even a Whataburger.  

But today is not that day.  

Today I am grateful to live in a small town because things happen in small towns that are precluded, by the laws of physics, as well as probably those of the University Interscholastic League, from happening anywhere else.  

It was a little after 7:30 this morning when I finished getting dressed for work.  As I was about to leave the bedroom, I noticed Parish.  He's a dog.  He was sitting in the doorway I needed to pass through, which made him hard to miss.  And he was doing some odd licking and shaking.  

One quick glance showed that his groin was hugely swollen.  I prodded the large knot, which was behind and to the side of his boy bits and discovered the area was unnaturally hard and unyielding.

The veterinarian's office opens at 8:00 a.m.  At 8:01 I was on the phone with the secretary/assistant, who told me the doctor was "in" and would be willing to examine my dog.  

I put Chapel, Parish's brother, out in the back yard alone, something he decried at ear-splitting levels, and bundled Parish into the truck. 

The vet watched us get out of the truck from  one of his waiting room chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, nursing a cup of coffee.  We took Parish into the back and put him on an exam table while I explained the problem.  Then I helped the vet turn him over onto his side so he could examine the groin.  

The growth was gone.  

No knot, no tumor, no nothing.  

The kindly old veterinarian looked at me with warm brown eyes and, without laughing, told me that sometimes when a boy dog really, really likes a girl dog...  Well, no he didn't.  But he did say that when a dog is ready to mate, there is a gland that can become very swollen and that this can happen even with a neutered dog, like Parish the Mortified. 

Imagine my chagrin.  

Thankfully, the vet didn't even charge me for the 2 minute consultation.  (He's also about to retire.  Anyone know of any good veterinarians that want to move to a small town?)  I got Parish back in the truck, not taking nearly as much care about it as I had initially.  

On the way home we had "the talk".  The talk about how 'they ain't nobody in this house gettin' any.'  Not me, not the cats and certainly not him.  Especially not when he doesn't even have all his parts!  Parish just hung his head and muttered "yes ma'am" at the appropriate points.  

Before I'd left for the vet's office, I texted my secretary to tell her that I would be late.  She reminded me that we were having court.  I'd completely forgotten.  Thankfully it was here and not in one of the out-lying counties.  When I got home, I put Parish out back with a delighted Chapel, then went inside and changed into more court-appropriate, less dog-hair covered clothing.  

I jumped back in the truck and headed to my office, ten miles away.  I walked in the door at 8:39 a.m. - only nine minutes late.  

Maybe I'll never be able to do a decent warrior pose or sun salutation here, but living in a tiny town does have its benefits!