High Maintenance

So I have a kind of high maintenance dog. He doesn't wear clothes or anything like that and he walks on a leash so I don't have to carry him everywhere, but his, uh, poopies are not adequate size and we found out the hard way that he needs his anal glands expressed periodically. Here in Utah it costs us 16 dollars every couple of months to have this done. I would gladly spend that to relieve myself of anal expression duty and allow someone at the vet's office to do the stinky job. Initially, when we discovered this charming problem back in Ramona, we were having it done every four weeks or so and finding that, at that frequency, Beck's glands weren't even close to full. We elected to mark his expressions down on the calendar and wait until he told us they needed some relief. How do we know? That's easy. Beckham starts licking his hindquarters with vigor. I noticed yesterday that he was paying a little attention to his hiney so I kept an eye on it. Today he was most concerned. It's been a good couple of months so I called the vet. This is what I meant to say and what I hope I said.

Me: Hi, I need to schedule an appointment to bring my dog in for an anal expression.

This is what, upon reviewing the conversation in my head, I think I said.

Me: Hi, I need to schedule an appointment for an anal expression.

And that just really sounds like I am the one who needed the expression. Far as I know I don't have anal glands and I certainly don't need or want them expressed. Especially by a veterinarian. I mean, it's not like they didn't know that it was FOR MY DOG but still. I hate when I have to schedule his expressions. I really hate saying the word anal out loud to people I don't know. It's because I have the maturity level of a nine year old.

They said I could bring him in right then which was great except that he was a huge spazoid and I was trying to wrangle him and the kiddo and I was wearing flip flops and Beck's nails scratched the top of my foot and it really hurt. And it was totally the kind of situation where if I wasn't at the vet I would have beat him or something because he NEVER behaves like that and it was embarrassing. I mean, I don't regularly beat my dog but he doesn't regularly behave as though he has ingested large volumes of crank. While he was in the back, having his butt tended to, a woman entered with a small and frightening dog. Not only was she wearing clothing (I only really tolerate animals dressed as people if they are big dogs backpacking in the Himalayas or something similar) her name was Prissy. I really half expected Paris Hilton to be holding her. But then, I'm sure Paris Hilton's dog has its own, personal, live-in vet. But Prissy, that's just inviting the other dogs to make glorious fun of your canine. As though the sweater wasn't doing enough already.