The dog is an assclown.

Dragging the butt across the floor, pawing at my bedroom door all frickin’ night like a large, angry housemate (WHAT DOES HE WANT? IT’S 2 A.M.! GO BACK TO YOUR OWN ROOM, PSYCHO HOUSEMATE… AND START DOING YOUR SHARE OF THE CHORES!). Pooping and pooping and scratching and scratching and chewing on his foot and dragging his ass around again… Of course it is worms.

Of course he has worms, requiring expensive medicine for both him and his nasty little cat friends, Wacky Cat 1 & 2. (“How do you do? Would you like to shake paws with Wacky Cat 1 and Wacky Cat 2?” No, because you’re wormy and gross and you dig your claws into me. Also, your puking is disgusting.)

Of course I can’t tell if they’re tapeworms or roundworms, because, eh, they kind of look like spaghetti. But they kind of look ricey. Why must everything be compared to food? Why? I have no appetite for lunch now, and sorry if you don’t now, either. So I bagged up a poop sample and off I go to the vet. The vet who always guilts me because I don’t love my pets enough to spend more money and time on them. Why would I, Internet? I hate them so. Like Our Lady of Amalah, I have already purchased several expensive Dysons for my vet.

One time she operated on the Assclown Dog’s ass — some tumorous thing that of course wasn’t cancer, she was just scaring me with the whole, “Oh no, what if your puppy-wuppy had cancer? Wouldn’t you regret not having this biopsied?” etc. AND SHE CHARGED $666 EXACTLY for the surgery. At that point I told the dog sorry, limited healthcare for you, Bubba Assclown. Your HMO doesn’t like you.

(And I do love the pets, deep down inside. But the love is not as strong as it used to be. I’d rather spend the money on new shoes. Or a trip to the Caribbean.) If you’re thinking about getting a puppy, please don’t. Just tear up a bunch of 100 dollar bills and toss them into the wind. Less poop to pick up, that way.

Later,

WM

EDITED TO ADD: Stupid worm medicine was 42 bucks. FORTY-TWO BUCKS! The assistant wanted to charge an extra 20 to send the poop to the lab — AN EXTRA TWENTY BUCKS. But I convinced her to open the frickin’ bag and give me an informal diagnosis. (She only agreed to do this because Bossy Vet was not in office and thus could not insist on taking more of my money.) Tapeworms.

OK, I’m going to lie down now. Because why, you ask? I stopped at my doctor’s, finally, after being owie for a week. My doctor, who is conveniently located a block from the vet, and I have a raging UTI. Just like Amalah’s dog. My barista, the Lovely Miss A, from the coffeehouse (across from the vet’s and the doctor’s, conveniently. See how I refuse to leave a three-block radius of my house?) had diagnosed it as kidney stones. She was only off a little bit. Am glad she insisted I go not just to the vet’s, but to the doctor’s as well. I should wear a sign: “Will accept any and all medical diagnoses for myself, pets and kids.”

Will guzzle gallons of cranberry juice. Will cut back on coffee. Will refuse sex. Goodbye, and good luck.