I had to take Blanche to the vet today. For those that don’t know, Blanche is the made up name of my real dog. Things are top secret here at my blog and one can’t be too careful. Getting Blanche to go to the vet is a bit of an ordeal. The problems start when I try to get her in my car. Usually a couple of treats do the trick.

Me (Attempting fake enthusiasm, comes off like a Kindergarten teacher with a massive hangover): Come on Blanche you can do it!

Blanche: Nope

Me: Come on girl, there are two treats in here (holds up a treat, then pats the back of the SUV).

Blanche (yawns, turns head in opposite direction)

Me: Get in here!

Blanche (walks away)

Me (Mutters “bitch”, goes inside. Announces to the hubs that we are at DEFCON Level 3)

Hubs: Want me to get her in there? I can do it, want me to show you?

(For the record, my husband thinks he can do EVERYTHING better than me or anyone else. Most of the time he can, I’m just not interested in his 30 minute tutorial on the perfect inflection to coax the dog into my vehicle. We also have 12 minutes to get to an appointment which is 10 minutes away. So visualize your favorite meme for “Ain’t nobody got time for that!)

Me: No. I know how you do it and I can’t muster up the fake enthusiastic voice. I’m going in for cheese.

Blanche: Did someone say cheese?

Me: (Tosses cheese in the back of the SUV) Get your ass in the car.

Blanche: Alright

It should be noted that Blanche is a 90 pound mutt who turns into a kangaroo dog as soon as we pass the threshold at the vet’s office. I don’t mean one of those cute docile kangaroos that you can actually pet in Australia…no she turns into big red, the roo that will knock your teeth out and put you in a coma. She has a smile on her face the entire time and I’m just blocking the blows like I’m in the ring with Tyson circa 1986. I don’t come out of these visits unscathed, I’m scratched up and broke by the time we leave.

Fortunately there were no other animals in the waiting area when we arrived. I try to speak to the receptionist while my kangaroo-gorilla-dog bounces up and down like Tigger on cocaine. My eyes convey a cry for help and they usher us to the scale. I find this amusing because 1) It’s my least favorite part of going to the doctor myself. Does anyone like getting weighed in a public space? 2) Getting Blanche to stay still on the scale is worse than trying to get her in the car. It’s like threading a needle with overcooked spaghetti. After several attempts we agree on a number and get directed to an examination room.

Blanche proceeds to lose her ever loving mind in the room when it’s just the two of us. I can only image what the office staff thinks is happening in here. Furniture is being moved, the scraping sound of dog nails on the linoleum…I may have said calm your tits a little too loud. After an infinity a vet and a technician came in to administer her shots and do the exam.

My dog, crazy as she is, becomes surprisingly compliant during the exam. She doesn’t bark, growl or show any indication of her big red ways when there are witnesses. Leaving the staff to think I must enjoy rearranging office furniture while speaking curtly to my dog when no one else is in the room. She got her shots, threw some punches (at me) and we got out of there for the mere cost of a car payment.