A SAVAGE Great Dane at seventy kilos plus –
(So gentle, soft and loving, but only with us),
Had caused so many rows with tempers frayed.
“He goes to the vet,” I cried. “I’ll have him spayed!”
(I meant castrated. Bad luck he’s not a bitch.)
I prayed the vet could cope without a hitch.
The great day dawned and Lance with sedatives filled
Arrived at the vet’s and dread within me chilled.
A calf chain pulled up tight around a post –
The vet crept up behind, just like a ghost.
With empty syringe he beat a hasty retreat.
We watched as Lancelot staggered on his feet.
The surgery cleared of dogs and staff, we three
Went in – yes, Bill, a staggering Lance and me.
We held him down, a towel covered his head.
The vet crept in. “The anaesthetic,” he said.
“No way will I be here when he comes round:
Be here – one hour – so we’ll be safe and sound.”
We drove back on the hour as specified.
“The surgery still stands,” my husband cried.
“So sorry I fixed him like a horse on the ground.
He would not fit on my surgery table, I found.
Here’s a scalpel,” the vet cried out. “No way
Will I remove those stitches a week today!”
At home Jack checked him out and then sat down
To check his jewels and look at me and frown.
“Don’t worry, Jack. It’s only Lance who’s lighter.
A kilo lost. We hope it curbs the blighter!”
Aware and awake by now my Lancelot
Then checked his gear and glared: Oh, thanks a lot!