Lucy and the Slipped Disc of Woe & Degradation

This is Lucy.
Lucy is a Pug.
Lucy is a very obese Pug.
Lucy is a very obese Pug and I am utterly Pug-whipped.

Sunday was an unhappy day in the Assassin house. Lucy wouldn't walk. She wouldn't EAT, drink or even sit. Occaisionally, she would scream inhumanly, alarming the guinea pigs and setting off the smoke detectors.

I had no idea what was going on. And that's so unlike me. Usually, I'm the one everyone comes to with questions about pet problems, the difference between "Frances" and "Francis," and to write obituaries. For some reason, they always come to me for obituaries.

But I had no idea what was wrong with Lucy. And this worried me. Which meant it scared the hell out of the kids.

Margaret: "Is Lucy gonna die?"

Me: "No. Something's wrong with her, though."

Jack: "Is she going to explode?"

Me: "Um, no. Why would you ask something like that?"

Margaret: "Duh, Jack! Dogs don't explode! They implode!"

Me: "What? Where did you..."

Jack: "That's just stupid. What's the trigger?"

Me: "Right. No trigger. Can we get serious for a moment?"

Meg (who just changed her name mid-conversation, naturalmente): "You? Serious?"

Jack: "So is she going to die? Can I get the new Bakugan trap?"

Meg: "Way to go, Jack! You wish Lucy was dead!"


Okay, so you can see what I'm dealing with here.

On Monday, Lucy was showing no improvement. So, I took lunch at 10 a.m. and took Lulu to the vet.

I love my vet. He's like a retired game show host who wanted to be Captain Kirk. I'm not even sure he dispenses sound medical advice - I just go there for the show. One time, I took a bird that I found in the yard unconscious. (Yeah, I know.) Doc looked at the bird, then looked at me and said, "It's a bird, Leslie."

Me: "Yes it is. Can you do anything?"

Doc: "I don't do birds, Leslie."

Me: "Oh. But you're a vet..."

Doc: "Take it outside and set it on the tree." And he walked out.

So I took Lucy in. Doc politely ignored the fact that she weighs twice what a Pug should weigh and checked her out. He did a lot of staring into space, tapping his fingers on the counter and mumbling to himself. Then he went and stood in a corner, ala-Blair-Witch finale.

Doc: "She has a slipped disc, Leslie."

He gave her a cortisone shot and some pills, asking me to let him know the next day how she was doing.

Pills. Lucy hates pills. This is a dog who would eat a dead mole carcass. Hell, most of the time, she eats whatever falls to the floor before identifying it. And yet, this dog...my princess...will not eat one quarter of a small pain pill.

Most dogs have muzzles that you can hold onto to keep their mouth closed until they get bored and forget they are trying to avoid swallowing. Pugs have more of a closed-fist-like face. It's almost like holding a bowling ball closed. Although why a bowling ball would open is beyond me.

Lucy has developed the most interesting reaction to having her face held shut. She foams at the mouth. And not just a little. She works up a very impressive spouting that comes through her clenched teeth and lips and pours out over everything in its path. Once you pull away in horror, she spits out the microscopic sliver of a pill.

The bitch.

I went back to work, at 11 a.m., covered in angry Pug hair and unmentionable amounts of foamy drool.

When I got home that night, she was springing around like a f%#!ing gazelle on meth.

The kids don't seem too disappointed that my pet didn't implode and once I get my dry cleaning back, I will give thanks that Lucy is alright.

Until the next episode.

The Assassin