I took our dog to the veterinarian today for his Spring check up. To be perfectly honest, he's not really my dog. He's our son Cole's dog. But now that Cole's off at college, Spike has become my dog. I don't know who's more disappointed in this turn of events - the dog or me.
"Spike" is a terrier mix who's only claim to fame is that he's about 90 in dog years. If he keeps going much longer, Willard Scott will give him a Smucker's Shout Out on "The Today Show." I can't wait.
"Well, what's 90 in dog years?" I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth that I am now making no sense at all.
Willard would probably say something very Willard-like.
"Spike is 100 years old today," Willard would enthuse to the millions watching at home. I would turn to Charlotte and beam with pride.
"Spike enjoys peeing on the fence, sleeping 18 hours a day and sniffing anything that's put in front of him. He says the secret to a long life is not eating dairy and chewing a daily Dentabone for fresh breath." How Williard would work in a plug for Smuckers is problematic, but he's been in tougher jams.
I am the default pet parent, but Charlotte and Cole worry that I might be only one step above the local animal shelter so they keep a close eye on things.
I try to watch out for our patriarchal pooch. I really do. It's just that I'm not the best pet parent. The minute I walk Spike into the exam room I peg out the veterinarian's BS meter and begin blowing my cover.
I resist the urge to know once and for all if a dog's mouth really is cleaner than a human's.
"No thanks," I say passing on the dental exam. I make a solemn vow to brush Spike's teeth as soon as we get home. The vet rolls his eyes as if to say he's heard that one before.
I also turn down the "senior dog exam." Another eye-roll.
"Well, he is about 90," the veterinarian stresses. I can sense the concern in her voice.
"Well, what's 90 in dog years?" I reply, realizing as the words leave my mouth that I am now making no sense at all.
"I think we'll go with the shots for now." Spike, who is now resigned to lying on the exam table, doesn't flinch when the injections come.
"Any questions?" the vet asks.
I place Spike in his kennel and heave it into the SUV. Spike looks at me with that goofy dog grin that even I can't resist. I make a mental note to email "The Today Show" when we get home.