Angel M Kellogg
I first met Angel M. “Wubby” Kellogg when I was living in Cambridge some years back and began spending a lot of time with her family. While our conversations were few and far between—she is, after all, a dog—we seemed to enjoy a deep unspoken bond. Which is why I was all the more shocked last week when she turned suddenly hostile, refusing to let me into her house despite extensive sweet talk and offerings of Boar’s Head cold cuts.
As some of you may recall, Wubby’s behavior on this unfortunate day became the subject of a recent essay that appeared on this blog. In fairness, I should have sought Wubby’s approval before going public with the incident and apologize for having failed to do so. (It’s the dog thing that put me off—not an excuse, just an explanation.)
For all these reasons, I’m delighted that Wubby has agreed to share her perspective in the following guest post. I’m also grateful to my friend Betsy for assisting Wubby in its preparation (especially given the fact that she doesn’t come off so well).
by Angel M. Kellogg (as transcribed by Betsy Munnell)
Dear Amy (and I do mean “Dear,” despite my unfortunate behavior of the other day),
I too have been having some somatic complaints [See “40 ways to appreciate a kidney stone”], and have found my moods distorted by same. When last we met I was a tad hostile (mea maxima culpa), as a direct function of a deeply alarming week spent frequenting the neighborhood vet. (So you get the picture, this guy has a photo-portrait of himself examining a miserably fat cat hung on the wall of the reception area. AND, two cats live at the office all the time. Really?)
So the first time, I had 15 teeth removed and parts of me shaved, because I have “bad saliva” and lousy owners, who are too lazy to brush my teeth. I came home feeling rotten, with antibiotics and pain killers. And the second time, the day of our misadventure, my older sister Catherine dragged me in so the vet could look at a suspicious something on my back. Despite all his experience the guy found it necessary to shave me, again, within an inch of my life so he could see it. Then he sent me home with antibiotics and pocket Greenies (of which you speak above) and the dubious recommendation that my family apply hot compresses three times a day for 15 minutes at a stretch (REALLY?).
So I was not a happy puppy when you came in the door that day.
And by the way, I went back on Tuesday (even though I started to shake violently when we turned up Mass. Ave en route past Simon’s to the cat-man’s lair) because I pulled a muscle and blamed Betsy for it and wouldn’t sleep with her anymore and she’s depressed. Now, thank God, I have the pain killers again and they’re back to feeding me human food and I’m feeling more frisky and smiling more. I am trying to let Betsy come around on her own, because she got way into my space over the pulled muscle thing—she hates when I cry. So I’ve been cautious about dragging my butt along the floor and humping random legs when I have an urge to dominate—to reduce her stress level.
So you think you’ve had a tough week. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. I wrote up my own Forty (well, 12) Ways to Appreciate Going to the Vet
1. It wasn’t something worse
2. I wasn’t out of town—the vets on the Vineyard are too crunchy, and obsessed with irritatingly serene black dogs
3. Led me to appreciate chicken, salmon and steak all the more
4. It gave me another way to reflect on the quality of openness that I’ve been mulling; the ability to see outside expectations. In brief, my initial tendency was to attribute this to having eaten some bad chicken, salmon or steak.…. In fact, it was something different
5. I told the doctor to stop saying “Good Girl” and get a life, which was satisfying
6. I know I should be eating more chicken, salmon and steak
7. Another way to remind my family how much they can’t live without me
8. Gave my owners a chance to see that when life doesn’t go according to plans their first priority should be me
9. I got those pain pills and had dreams about having not been spayed
10. Got Betsy to get off freaking Facebook and Twitter long enough to address more meaningful concerns
11. Got Betsy to spend more time with me and less at that over-rated Simon’s Coffee Shop, where everyone knows her name and she wastes money on WiFi with her over-educated Cambridge friends all of whom wear headphones (Really? who pays for WiFi anymore?)
12. Made me appreciate Massachusetts, where health insurance is affordable—leaving more cash left over for chicken, salmon and steak
12. Writing about this gives me a chance to apologize for my poor behavior, and to offer a believable excuse, thereby increasing the likelihood that when you come again you will still have Evergood’s cheese on hand.
Love and licks from me, Wubby
Author’s Note: In the event you still have doubts about my trials and tribulations, consider that the above photo first appeared on Facebook with the following commentary: “Why am I blue? Well, I trotted through a freshly poured sidewalk on Avon Hill Street. My master is an idiot. Note the remains of my cement shoes.” Very diplomatic of me not to have used my master’s name, don’t you think? (By the way, it’s Betsy.)
Editor’s note: This guest post first appeared as a comment on the original post, where it elicited the following response from Canine Canine’s Eddie:
“Wubby, my most sincere commiserations for your veterinary ordeal. Something else to be grateful for (#13): you did not have to wear the cone of shame like my pal Remy, who came home with a deep gash on his paw and had to get stitches because some jerk left broken glass on the path at Fresh Pond.”
Finally, big thanks to Eddie’s owner Jan for suggesting this guest post’s clever title.