Okay. This is Sassy aka the Pooch. (posted up by the fridge, as usual)
She’s your ordinary lovable ultra pampered spoiled urban house canine. A real cutie-brat. (nickname given by Free)
So. For the last few days, Sassy hasn’t been her usual hyperactive demanding self. She’s been eating and shitting all right, but she hasn’t been running around like usual, nosing her way into everyone’s business and begging for my and the RR’s food – so, that’s when I knew something was amiss. Then, Friday night, she started to whimper when I went to pick her up, totally rebuffed my attempt to rub her tummy, and instead coiled into a little ball - so I knew right then, I’d be taking her to see the Pooch Doctor first thing Saturday morning.
Saturday morning: Dropped off the Pooch for her exam with the Pooch Doc, then jetted off to yoga. As I walk into class, vet calls. Says: “Ms. SS, I’ve examined Sassy, and can’t find anything wrong – she doesn’t have a fever, yadda yadda, she’s a tad overweight, but she looks healthy.” Hmmmm…… Then, I verbally submit that I know something’s wrong due to her strange behavior, and so the Pooch Doc suggests that he’ll take some x-rays and run some blood panels just to be sure. Yeah. Okay.
So right then I had it in my mind that Sassy’s a big FAKER, and simply got pissed because the last two weeks Supa’s either been runnin’ the streets, writing, yucking it up on the phone a lil’ more than usual, or retiring to bed early without taking their evening walk – and she just needed some attention. And she was willing to make Supa drop some chedda at the vet to get her point across. Hmmm…
So, into yoga class. While sitting in Sukhasana, my aunt inquires about the impending Sassy drama. “Vet just called,” I say. “’Aint nothing wrong with Sassy. I’ma spank her when I get home…” We both laugh, then proceed to huff and puff (I mean, breeaathhe) our way through the rest of class.
Finish and exit yoga. Check voicemail. Pooch Doc called to say: “Well, Ms. SS, seems that Sassy has a slipped disc (L2) in her back, and we’ll need you to…..”
“Awwwww lawd nooooo not my baby lawwdd noooooooo….!!!!” (Supa actin’ a fool on a busy urban avenue, while listening to message and walking back to her car) “Ooohh my poor baby!” I start to tear up (okay, cry), seriously. Then immediately start to guilt trippin’..... thinking that the Pooch was just faking for attention….thinking about how many times I’ve let her slightly pudgy ass JUMP off my high ass bed, all the while scoffing at the notion of purchasing her some doggy stairs….thinking about how I’ve ruined her diet by allowing her to sit up and munch sugar cookies with me as a late night snack, etc…
So. Race up to the vet’s office. Meanwhile, call The Girl, whine and tell her what’s going down so she can guilt trip me more about the whole deal. (Mommy, nooo! What did you do?!?) Walk into office, confer with Pooch Doc. Yes, he advises, she probably cracked her back by jumping off the bed (guilt), and it didn’t help matters that she could stand to lose a few pounds (guilt guilt), and how she’s a little doggie and can’t withstand a lot of weight on her legs (ready to slit my wrist), and how she has to take this expensive medicine and refrain from physical activity for two weeks so she can heal and hopefully avoid having to have surgery. Oh, and pay that ridiculous ass bill on the way out. Yeah.
And so I ask – whaddaya mean, refrain from physical activity? Sassy likes to run, and jump, and slide around, and dry-hump her favorite stuffed animal at regular intervals throughout the day.
(pic of Sassy's favorite "toy." She be humpin' the shit outta this bad boy)
So like, how am I supposed to keep her from doing all that? Do your best, he advises. Confine her, watch her every move, do what you can. Or – the dreaded surgery. Oh yeah, and and pay that bill on the way out.
SO. For the past twenty-four hours, Sassy Pooch has been diva numero uno up in this piece. Between me and the RR’s, she’s been carried, rubbed, fed, and hawked over at every conceivable turn. I bought her gourmet dinners and meaty bones and a nice baby blanket to curl up on. Calls are coming in; the info has now spread through the family tree. The Girl suggested I take some time off work in order to look after her properly – and of course, she’d have to skip school, too. The Boy said, “See, told ya’ll she was getting too fat. ” Shut up. Everyone, just shut up. I’m dancing as fast as I can. The whole ordeal forced me to go shopping yesterday afternoon…
And last night, I had this crazy dream.. I was touring somewhere in Africa, Tanzania if I remember correctly, with a group of artistic folk on some kind of cultural exchange program. We were scheduled to read poetry at some celebration ceremony or something. Everyone was dressed in authentic regionally appropriate gear, except me – I had on my 4 inch Aldo Italian leather wedgies, some tight ass capri jeans, and my bright orange “crack is wack” t-shirt. What the fuck. I was pissed. For some reason, nobody cared. They just wanted me to read some poetry piece about “Ode to Beyonce” and had a blonde wig for me to wear while doing so. I absolutely fucking refused. There was chaos, arguments going down.
I jumped up outta my dream with a start – to find Sassy’s ass in my face, her fur obstructing the areas vital for the intake of oxygen to the brain. Apparently, she was mad because I fell asleep and stopped rubbing her belly for all of maybe, twenty minutes.
It’s a wonderful life at the
Don’t laugh. Stay tuned…..
PS - As if the above referenced situation wasn't enough - apparently my beloved Razr phone has been unable to hold a charge the entire weekend, so if any of my peeps tried to holla, I wasn't screening this time....