Happy Monday dog lovers. Nigel Buggers here: my two-legger is back at work slaving for the man, thanks in no small part to me. He sure has a lot of earning to do!

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You see, I heard this rumor that he was going to New Hampshire without me all day Saturday and that got my piss hot. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to New Hampshire but they don’t have any sales tax on dog food or treats, so there was no way I was going to collect dust on the sofa while he felt up my nom noms in a strange, taxless land. I kicked the cat off my favorite chair and flexed my mental muscles, hoping the perfect plan would come to me…

When I started limping things got hot fast. My two-leggers have spent over 100k on vet bills in the last decade, so they start crapping their pants every time I sneeze. I threw in my best look of consternation for effect, and before you know it they were sending apologetic e-mails to friends in NH and I found myself being whisked off to the vet. All I had to do was survive the exam and the weekend would be mine. I imagined myself gloating, and that was sexy.

One thing is certain: I know my way around at the vet. After years of professional faking for sympathy, this place has become my home away from home. As is my custom, I immediately walked into the lobby and got on the scale.

I’m guessing I go about a hundred, maybe one-fifty.

I’ll talk to the ladies at the desk about having my bill adjusted.

I had a few minutes to spare while I looked we waited for a fire alarm to pull room to open, so I bought a case of cat spray.

.

Faking injuries and ruining weekends can really work up an appetite, and I was fortunate enough to spend some time at the refreshment area before we were called to an exam room.

(Please note that the man behind the desk is seriously bumming. They just told him his cat is going to make it.)

Before I knew it I’d been whisked into an exam room and the fussing began in earnest. It was almost like they were going overboard. I felt like I was being…manipulated.

And then things went straight to hell.

Thoughts:

1. If you want to know what I had for breakfast, just ask.

2. Not unless you buy me dinner and bully sticks and stuffies.

3. That is not a thermometer and you’d know that you’re supposed to point that thing elsewhere if you’d remember that GIANT PICTURE ON THE WALL.

Of course, in the end I just farted. Game over.

When everyone came to I heard some gibberish about dragging me out back. I got all nervous but they told me that’s where they keep the giant barrels of peanut butter. They lied.

That would be the heartless vet dragging me off to the bone checker machine.

Once they finished grilling me with radiation I made a run for it. While they read my x-ray I put on my best vet disguise and went back into the exam room. It was time to take control and see to it that I never found myself in this situation again.

I explained that by reading the x-rays and listening to Nigel’s thumper with my dangly thing I was able to deduce that there was little left to be done but provide him with every creature comfort available.

I’m pretty sure they were buying it because my two-legger got out his Android, and I knew he wanted to tell everyone on Facebook to keep me in their prayers.

I was close to pulling it off when the vet came back and busted me. She took back her dangly thumper checker and crushed my dreams of six figure paychecks and candy striper poodle vet techs and showed us the x-ray.

So much for that bucket list. Bummer, I really would have enjoyed that romantic weekend with Soaring Cindy and those legs…

I was jolted back to reality when the vet got this evil look on her face and started laughing and said that aside from resting my swollen foot, all I would have to do is survive a week of liquid suppositories.

This hound is smart enough to admit defeat. I’d gone from stealing a weekend of fun from my two-legger to looking down the barrel of a week long poop-shooter squirt gun party. I didn’t even bother to protest when she handed us this nonsense to bring home.

I lose.

Dogs, the next time you think about faking it for attention, remember my tale of woe. If you do decide to give it a whirl, look over your shoulder at all times, and if your vet is a dingleberry and can’t tell your ear from your rear, have them call my vet.

By now, I’m pretty sure she knows the difference by heart.

Source: LifeWithDogs