Boo Radley had his initial visit with our new vet this week. Halfway down Hollonville Road, on the way into town, he had an accident in the back seat of the car – – he knew something was up when he was leaving the house without his brothers. His ears plastered his neck, his tail stayed tucked underneath him. He trembled and panted the whole time, begging to go home, clinging close to me.
Understand: Boo doesn’t even like me. I went out and rescued this little undernourished, matted knothead, and he came home and declared on DAY 1 that he is his daddy’s dog, which is why we ended up with additional dogs. Fitz is my soul dog, and Ollie is “the guest dog,” requested by one of my grandsons on a visit when he realized that he was the only one without a Netflix-watching lap dog.
The vet offered treats, but Boo is too smart for that. He’s not talking to strangers, and he’s sure not eating any of their candy.
This is Boo – our High-Anxiety Schnoodle, who is as bad as if not worse than a toddler with severe separation anxiety. Only he’s not a toddler. He’s 56 in dog years, a little old grown man, and more curmudgeonly than Tom Hanks in A Man Called Ove.
But we made it through the visit (they decided not to take his temperature and risk displacing that tail firmly guarding the entrance) that consisted of listening to his heart and feeling for any growths, and 48 hours later, we are finally at ease.
Finally.
Anxiety: A Boo Haiku
visit to the vet
wouldn’t take the treats offered –
anxiety wins!
Common Threads 