Apparently the dogs were offended by my last post and decided to show me what’s what when it comes to bad behavior.
Round 2 of the rodeo comes courtesy of one miniature pinscher, who was recently given up for adoption due to enough neighborly noise complaints to threaten eviction for his previous owner. I believe, had we been able to translate, he would have been shouting, “I HATE THE WORLD” over and over and over.
His new owner, a kind and sweet woman who seems to have no idea what she has gotten herself into, brought him in to be updated on his vaccinations, and of course, for a nail trim. We put him in a kennel while we were waiting for his vaccine history to arrive by fax. Baaaad idea.
When we were finally ready to get started, he decided that there was no way we were getting him back out of his kennel. When a pet gets cage aggressive, it can be extremely difficult to extricate him from his safe spot. It’s rather like sticking your hand down a snake hole and hoping for the best. We managed it, but it wasn’t easy. It involved our trusty blanket from Tijuana, a leash-as-lasso, and a bit of luck. He was not happy and immediately began to plot his revenge.
We placed him on the floor, muzzled, while we decided how best to approach him. At this point, he sidled up to me and professed that maybe I wasn’t so bad, and could we be friends? I pondered this generously offered olive branch, decided it was worth a go, and after a minute of calm talking picked him up.
At this exact point my tech walked behind him with a towel on her way to another part of the room. The thought of being burritoed once again struck him with such sheer terror that his bowels turned to water and he let loose with a waterfall of diarrhea to rival Hawaii’s most glorious natural wonders in a muddy torrent right down the front of my pants. It was kind of like that, except malodorous and not relaxing and actually not particularly refreshing either. Now that I think about it, perhaps this is more apropos a descriptor (though the name isn’t so funny.)
Then, as though to claim dominion over his evil work, the second I put him down to assess the damage to my pants, he took a running leap into the pool- the poop pool- and did a couple crocodile rolls just to make sure I got the point. And the point was,
“Cats got nothin on me! BOO YAH!”
or, as I chose to interpret it,
“You’re getting Telazoled, buddy.”
One dose of sedatives later, he was clean, vaccinated, trimmed, and on his way. My pants, not so much. Good thing I had a spare pair.