Pimp Limp

Yesterday, as my husband and I were tackling our mountain of yard work (read: he was sweating and busting his ass, while I was sipping lemonade in the shade pointing out all the work that needed to be done and gently prodding him to work quicker--he loves that. He thrives under pressure,) he noticed that Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. was limping.

"You haven't taken him to the vet yet?" he asked somewhat snotty and incredulous.

"No. I. Haven't." I responded with my Back-The-Fuck-Off-Bitch voice.

"Why not? He's been limping for months now. What kind of doggie mother are you?"

"The kind of doggie mother who actually has a life and has been busy, asshat. Watch what you're doing over there. You missed a spot." (Note how I deflected the attention from myself by criticizing his craftmanship.)

He stops painting the deck, places both hands on his hips and sneers, "BI-ZEE? Doing what? It's not like you have a job. How hard is it to run the dog in to the vet?" This sanctimonious crap from the man who will look at his child's cut, see bone and ligament and tell them to get a bandaid, it doesn't need stitches. Suck it up butter cup, Daddy's watching the game.

"I have a job. It's called picking up after your sorry ass and caring for your offspring." I say this as Nixon limps towards me. Thanks dog. Nothing like making me feel even worse. "Besides, sometimes he limps and other times he doesn't. I can't figure it out. It just keeps slipping my mind." Now I'm on the defensive. Nixon on the other hand, doesn't seem to have a problem. He just sits at my feet and licks his nuts.

Good dog. A man who licks his own balls and doesn't want me to. Gotta love that.

"Yer a bad doggie momma. Yer lucky the authorities haven't come to take him away and place him in custody while they throw your sorry, redneck ass in the clink for neglecting your children." He knows he's found my weakspot now, and he's feeling brave.

"You're a comedian. You don't even like Nixon." Take that! Just then Nixon gets up to chase a beetle and his limp is magically gone.

However, my husband's tactics were hard at work, niggling my inner mommy and playing on my sense of guilt. "Fine. I'll go call the vet right now. And when they tell me my dog is a hypochondriac, pimping his limp to get sympathy and chicken treats, and then bill me a fortune, I'm gonna remember this conversation." Take that. Asshat. Nobody calls me a bad doggy mother.

Except that I AM a bad doggy mother.

Upon arrival to the vet clinic, where Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. promptly turned into a shaking, nervous fraidy cat (what a pussy, I was so embarrassed,) the charming and knowledgeable vet immediately honed in on what I thought was my dog's fake limp.

He has a luxating patella. Dislocated kneecap. Grade 3. Immediate surgery required.

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Luckily for me, the vet didn't call the doggie authorities on me and have me hauled off in cuffs, while kicking and screaming "Give back my baby! I love you Nixon! This is all a misunderstanding...NIIIIXXXXOOONNN," as the deputy shoves me into the cruiser and takes me to a dirty cell filled with other bad mommies and the odd prostitute.

After explaining the condition, the surgery, his recovery and then vaccinating my poor neglected baby against mad-dog diseases, he looks at me and sees I'm feeling overly-guilty for weeks months of ignoring my dog and his magically dislocating trick knee.

(My hound dog look and willingness to allow Nixon to lick my face must have reflected my mother's guilt.)

"Don't worry, T. The way I figure it, you are just getting what you want."

Um okay. "Just what is it that I want?"

"A crippled kid. Now you've got one. And you don't even have to deal with the adoption asshats to get him."

Clearly, somone has been reading my blog. I fucking love small towns.

Ha. Ha. Very funny, Mr. I-have-known-your-family-way-too-long-and-thereby-feel-comfortable-in-torturing-you-and-overcharging-you-for-the-pleasure Veternarian.

So surgery is scheduled. And I am now looking out for a lucrative street corner to stand on (gotta earn money somehow) to help pay for the procedure so my husband doesn't stroke out when I tell him how much it will cost to fix my dog.

Meanwhile, I swear Nixon is all smiles. He's playing this cripple thing for all it's worth.

And so is my asshat husband who is taking every opportunity to point out the fact that he was right and I was a bad doggy momma.

Keep it up Boo. There'll be no treats for you later on. Not even if you beg like my crippled dog.