Gertrude knew the vet visit wasn’t for her. She was just there to laugh.
Gertrude knew the vet visit wasn’t for her. She was just there to laugh.
Spring break was exhausting.
The week was strewn with awkward middle-of-the-day appointments and my entire salary went to the vet.
I come home from work on Saturday night to find my apartment covered in scat and blood.
Apparently stress caused the Rottweiler to have a bacterial imbalance, and erm, yeah. Blood. Everywhere. It was disgusting.
I was on the phone with Madre Jansen while scrubbing the blood from the floor:
Me: “Ugh.”
Madre Jansen: “What’s wrong grasshopper?”
Me: “I’m scrubbing blood from the floor. The Rottweiler is having issues again. I’m going to vet.”
Madre Jansen: “This is getting expensive. Maybe you should give the dog back to the humane society.”
Me: “Ugh. We’ll see. I still want to make her into a handbag.”
Madre Jansen: “Maybe she’s on her period and – excuse my language – just a sloppy bitch.”
I laughed so hard that I almost dropped my phone in the blood.
Mom cursing = hilarity every time.
It was my third vet trip within a week. Harley did a good impression of my face when I saw the bill:
I came home from work, Gertrude was out of the kennel, and the floor was covered in blood.
Another trip to the vet, $230, a hospital stay, and a dozen tests later, the doctor tells me that stress induced a bacteria imbalance which causes the rottweiler to pee blood. Charming.
The only thing that’s keeping me from killing both of the dogs is the cuteness:
