The Courier & Advertiser (Angus and Dundee)
It may be time to take my terrier back to his roots
Fiona thinks that while the pandemic has delivered some tough times, it has given pet owners dedicated time with furry friends
I can’t believe it’s August! Where has the summer gone? Or going…
The last six months have been very strange. Then you know that already.
Being housebound has had its ups and downs. “Up” has given a chance to get off the treadmill. And sort out all those jobs. “Down” – well, where do we start with a global pandemic? What it has done, though, is concentrate the mind on what matters. Which is family, friends and community.
It’s also given dedicated dog time. Practically 24/7. For five months. Not that this protects you from the world. This week the littlest Macnaughties has to visit the vet. Rummie’s back leg has started to give way when he walks. And he loves his walks.
Anyhow, we ring the pet doctor and the instruction is to bring the patient along and wait in the car park until someone comes to collect him. A cheery veterinary assistant appears, and the problem is explained. We pop the lead on and off he trots.
Or rather, skips. Because there now appears to be no problem with the leg. Just for safety, though, they suggest an x-ray.
And whilst he’s out for the count they can clean his teeth.
The procedure is to be carried out the next day. The instruction is to give the hound nothing to eat for 12 hours beforehand.
And so we rise bright and early and the Norfolk terrier looks reproachfully at an empty bowl as the cocker spaniel chomps his way through the remains of last night’s chicken.
Luckily, I have a writing deadline, so it is the chief who must do the dastardly deed. Bundling Rummie into the car. Driving him eight miles. Handing him over to a stranger. Who will then hurt him with a great big needle.
Our little dog returns later, muzzy, confused – and intent on giving the Macgregor a very wide berth. He is also ravenous and makes quick work of a large dish of biscuits. And this time it is the spaniel who has to look jealously on.
If only we could make them understand that it is all for their own good. That it is not a torment, punishment, or experiment.
Rummie goes huffily to his bed and the vet rings with the results. It is something to do with spondylosis, which I think is to do with the spine.
He also has a touch of rheumatism. Then he is nearly 12. Which in human terms is getting into older boy country.
We pop the lead on and off he trots or rather skips. Because there appears to be no problem with the leg... but they suggest an x-ray
Hope lies in the pack of pills we now have to administer. Plus there is to be plenty of rest, which means him being carried round on a velvet cushion. I jest. There is no such cushion.
Yet before he gives up the ghost my Norfolk terrier may soon have to make that pilgrimage down south. He has lived all his life in Scotland and never been to the county he is named after. And I am ashamed to say that neither have I.