Another Monday

My wife and I have two dogs, Winston, a 3-year-old English bulldog/pug mix and Baker, an 11-month-old standard poodle. Winston weight 62 pounds; Baker weighs 45 pounds.

Today my wife took Winston to the vet. She thought she saw a scratched eyeball. She was right. Winston also has conjunctivitis. The vet prescribed drops for the scratched eye and another set of drops for the conjunctivitis.

My wife said, “It took the vet, the vet tech and me to hold him down while the vet put in the drops.”

Dang, I thought. The dog must be handful.

Then my wife informed me: “We are going to put in the drops. You hold him secure, and I will put in the drops.”

Wait, wait. In the vet’s office, it took a 20-something vet tech, a 30-something vet and my 69-year-old wife to hold down a short, chunky 62-pound round dog, on an exam table. I am two months short of 76 years old. And now my wife (see above for age) and I are going to do the same thing, but on a couch, not a waist-high medical examination table.

Winston is more than a handful. At least four handfuls. I did my best holding the dog still and keeping his wide, short head in the proper position. Sat here, sat there, sat at another place on the couch. No good.

My wife and I switched jobs. She would hold Winston and I would drop in the drops. She slid off the couch trying to hold him. She got back on the couch and took another hold on his body and on his head. I squirted drops. Three times. “Got it,” I alleged. We had to wait five minutes before applying the single drop to Winston’s right eye. Same wrestling match. “Okay,” I announced. My wife said, “Did you get the drops in?” I said, “I got the drops in something.”

Success.

For tomorrow, Winston and my wife have an appointment at the vet’s office, where younger people and my wife will do the job. I was going to suggest that. Hey, $20, $40, I don’t care. It will be worth it.