Tales from the Homefront: The Night Our Furry Friend Gave Us Quite a Scare…and a Chuckle
And how it cost me nearly £200 in today’s money
For this sorry tale, I first have to set the scene. It was a typical Sunday evening during the summer of 1992 and I was at home with my family. My dad, who worked in newspapers and was usually working at night, was home having an evening off. We were sitting in the living room watching something on television and all seemed fine with the world.
Then my mum went to make us all tea (we’re Scottish, we love tea).
And that’s when the dog got sick.
Our dog was a little bundle of fluff called Robbie. A blue and tan miniature Yorkshire Terrier, he was the baby of the house and much-loved by the family.
Acting Weird
Anyway, on this particularly evening, he started acting weird. He lay on the floor of the living room panting. His eyes were rolling and the whites of the eyes were showing. It was not a particularly warm evening (it is after all Scotland), he had not been out exercising and this bout of excessive panting had come from nowhere.
He had also stretched out on the floor and was stiff as a board. It felt like he couldn’t move.
What was wrong with him?
I immediately shouted on my mum, my dad being somewhat useless. She came rushing in from the kitchen and the two of us had a mild panic. We asked my father to take the dog to the emergency vet, pleaded and begged, but he refused. He said there was nothing wrong with the dog, that he’d be fine and that we were worrying over nothing.
Was he not seeing what we were seeing? The dog was panting and stiff. His tongue was turning blue. He was dying. We were sure of it!
We had to do something.
Vet Adonis
I scooped up the dog, phoned the emergency vet and arranged to meet him at a vet’s practise over in the nearest town.
Giving my father a dirty look for failing to come to Robbie’s rescue, we rushed out of the house and I drove the 15 minutes to the practise.
It was the longest 15 minutes of my life up until then.
Meanwhile, wrapped in a blanket in my mother’s arms, Robbie continued to pant. His eyes rolled some more and it was all I could do to keep a lid on the rising panic I felt inside. Please don’t die, I pleaded as I drove on.
We arrived at the vet’s to find what I can only describe as a Greek Adonis standing waiting for us. The vet was young, blonde, tall and very, very handsome. I can’t now remember his name, but I remember how my knees went weak to look at him.
As I rolled my tongue back into my head and fought with my brain to form words, I explained to the “Gorgeous Young God” what was wrong with the dog. I pointed out the heavy panting, the stiffness of the body and the fact the dog himself looked terrified. I answered his questions as best I could, all the while fighting a duel battle with myself: on the one hand, I genuinely thought my dog was not long for the world, and on the other I kept wondering if the vet was single and would it be inappropriate to ask for his number.
Anyway, I digress.
The vet, let’s call him Adam, slipped on blue plastic gloves and got to examining Robbie. He checked his eyes and his teeth, he felt his stomach and his hips, he checked everything he could think of.
Then he did something that brought the entire business to a very abrupt close.
The Closer
Adam stuck a gloved finger into Robbie’s anus, pulled it out and released a whole load of pent-up gas.
Robbie farted low and loud for about five minutes. It was a strangled, trumpet sound that you couldn’t mistake for anything else. Along with it came the kind of fart smell that only dogs can make (dog owners, you know what I mean): meaty, putrid and rank.
After he had finished, and now looking very much relieved, Robbie licked the vet, wagged his tail and became all animated. He was fine.
Meanwhile, my mum and me could only stare at him in disbelief. All that for a fart? Oh shit! And we had dragged this gorgeous man out on a weekend for this. We thanked the vet profusely and apologised for dragging him out for that.
“That’s okay,” Adam said. “You’re better to be safe than sorry.”
And then he promptly charged us £85 for his trouble — which works out as approximately £179 in today’s money.
So, what did my dad say when we returned and told him all about this: “I knew he was okay.”
Robbie lived on for another seven years, dying at the grand old age of (nearly) 15. He suffered various ailments as he aged, but he never had another bout of trapped wind like that.
As a family we have never forgotten him and we still love him dearly. Neither have we forgotten the incident of the expensive fart! At least we can laugh about it now!
I never did get Adam’s number though.
D A Nelson — Thrilling fiction for Romantic Suspense and Fantasy Adventure Fans (danelsonauthor.com)