One morning we woke up and realized that Monty was sick. He wasn’t only merely sick. He was really most sincerely sick. At first we thought he might have eaten something that disagreed with him, but then, after two days of unmentionable dog symptoms on our various rugs, we decided we should bring him to the vet. Naturally, by the time this happened it was the weekend and the vet’s office was closed, so we had to bring the dog to a doggie ER instead.

Unlike the time when I went into the Emergency Room while I was in labor with my daughter in the suburbs, nobody offered Monty a wheelchair, valet parking, or a latté on his way in. He did however get a lot of attention and a private room, which was more than I got when I actually gave birth.

Monty seemed to be comfortable and at ease while we waited for the doctor. I however, was not. The last time I had brought a dog to the animal ER it did not have a happy ending. Although I was confident Monty did not have anything serious going on, I still had some Doggie ER PTSD from my last time there and wondered if they offered something like a chair massage or aromatherapy for pet owners while they waited for updates. It was possible that such services existed, but I assumed it was only for owners of elite dogs like Bavarian Mountain Hounds and Tibetan Mastiffs.

“His temperature is normal and he doesn’t seem to be in any pain when I press his abdomen,” the vet told me as she examined the dog. 

“Well, that sounds good,” I said.

“But he could have a parasite or an obstruction or something else,” she said. “We should run some tests and do an x-ray. In the meantime, we can start him on an antibiotic and give him a hydration patch and some meds to make him feel better.” 

“How much will that be?” I said.

 “I’ll work up an itemized estimate for you,” she said to me. “And then you can let us know how you want to proceed.”

“Of course, we’ll do anything we need to do for him” I assured her. “Whatever the price is.”

She left the room and came back a few moments later with a piece of paper. I was hoping that they had a defibrillator handy because when I saw the number, I was pretty sure I was going to have a heart attack. It appeared that I had a choice between running the tests on the dog or buying an island in the Caribbean.

I called my husband.

“They need to run some tests on the dog and it’s going to be expensive,” I told him.

“How much?” he said.

I gave him the number. There was a long stretch of silence on the other end of the phone and I waited for some indication that my husband was still conscious.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Let them do whatever they need to. I’ll call the bank and see if we can get a second mortgage.”

One x-ray, a battery of blood tests, and a veterinary bill that could choke a horse later, we had the results.

“He’s fine,” said the vet.

“Fine, fine?” I said.

“Yup,” she said.  “Must have just eaten something that disagreed with him.”

“That was my original diagnosis.” I said shaking my head. “I should have been a vet.”

“It’s a tough job,” she smiled. “But the money’s good.”


Read more about Monty's (and my) midlife woes and joys! Join the community on Facebook and see some great dog pics on Instagram: @TracyinSuburbia.