For the past week Denny has been diligent in ensuring that his rump is completely devoid of fur. He has a hot spot that he can’t seem to leave alone. The poor thing. His rear is bold, red and angry. (There’s an infant reference in there somewhere.) He treats his rear like he treats his feet: they are precious entities that must be defended against invaders at all costs. This translates into him growling, snarling and basically looking like a bad ass anytime someone even stares thoughtfully at one of his forbidden areas. It’s ridiculous. After multiple doggy medications, I’ve settled on a hot spot gel for dogs. It seems to work when he doesn’t manage to lick it off or rub it off on the carpet. (Just imagine him lying on his back having an epileptic fit. It’s hilarious and pathetic at the same time.)
This morning I finally broke down and drug out the Cone of Shame. It’s been hiding in my closet since Denny suffered the indignity of being neutered a few years ago. Somehow he seemed to have forgotten the horrible memories associated with the cone. That is, until I tried to snap it around his neck. Then it turned into a calf-roping rodeo where the calf had a lot of sharp teeth and the rope was a flimsy plastic piece of uncooperative crap. Seriously. This thing did not want to bend to my will and it definitely didn’t want to bend to fit around Denny’s neck. It was a freak show that was thankfully only witnessed by Lemon, our Dachshund, and our fish. The fish did seemed to be a bit more wide-eyed than usual when I left for work. I imagined that they were laughing and rightfully so.
I must admit that I am slightly afraid of what I’ll come home to. Perhaps Lemon will be missing and the only clue to her location will be a note in her food bowl that has been snipped from magazines. REMOVE THE CONE AND THE DACHSHUND WILL BE RETURNED UNHARMED. ALSO, I NEED A BELLY RUB.
We shall see. *fingers crossed*
Bad, with Conviction 