The Violation of Milo

So, we bring Milo to the vet’s office last night, partly because he’s due for his final round of puppy shots, but partly because he’s been pooping out chocolate pudding for two weeks straight and I’m starting to wonder if this dog has an actual gastrointestinal tract, or if he’s just this one-stop diarrhea-making machine that’s been cleverly concealed in a cute puppy package. Seriously…he’s been pooping out WAY more than I ever see going in, which means either A) he’s getting out at while we're sleeping to hunt, catch, and devour the local wildlife, which seems unlikely because he’s been jamming his feet/ass/nose into my face/mouth/eyesockets every hour of the GD night, or B) he’s actually starting to crap out his insides, and if we don’t fix this problem soon, one day he’s going to poop himself inside out, which I’m guessing will not be pretty or easily fixable. Either way, we’re going to need some professional help.

Anyhoozits, we went to the vet last night, which was great because it really takes Milo down a few notches. At home he’s King Milo and we’re all just his lowly servants, which means that he gallops around the house carrying objects in his mouth and we chase after, paper towels and Lysol in hand (lest he should feel the need to poop), begging him to drop whatever he has and hoping to god he doesn’t ingest it. But at the vet, he becomes this sweet, submissive, terrified little man who just wants to be held by his mamma and told that everything’s going to be okay. And the people at the vet’s office are all, oh, isn’t he such a sweet, well-behaved little thing, and we’re all, yeah, he’s real sweet until he projectile-poops into your slipper and then hides one of your BCBG patent leather 3-inch heels in the couch. And then they laugh and we don’t, and things become awkward.

So the receptionist finally call us up to the front desk to get our info, and she asks how he’s feeling and why we brought him, and then says, “did you bring a stool sample?”

What?

Nobody told us to bring a stool sample, which is a shame, because I was up to my elbows in stool this morning when he crapped all over the floor and vacuum cleaner cord as I was leaving for work. Oh, stool we have aplenty, but apparently never when you need it. So I joked, “no, but give him five minutes and he’ll probably give us one.”

She didn’t laugh. Must have been a rough day at the office.

She finally responded, “Well, it might not be necessary” and told us to sit back down. And I’m thinking, wow, they have blood tests for everything these days, even parasites. That’s super cool.

Oh, how wrong I was.

We went into the exam room and our super nice, chatty female vet asks us the same questions the receptionist asks us. And of course, all the time Milo is glued to my side and as quiet as a church mouse, and I’m thinking that we should bring him to the vet more often. Like, every GD day. So we start talking about his tummy issues and she goes on and on about the various parasites he could have, and the whole time we’re chatting she’s putting on a latex glove. Just one.

Odd.

And then she says it:

“Well, I hear you didn’t bring in a stool sample, so I’ll have to go in and get one.”

Uh...wait a minute here. You’re going to go and get a sample? Like from his butt? …Seriously?

And poor little Milo is looking up at me with those sad puppy eyes like, please can we just get OUT of here and I promise I’ll never poop again? and I realize that he’s about to get totally violated and I’m thinking, man, sometimes it REALLY sucks to be a dog.

So in she goes, and it was only for a few seconds but I swear I’ve never see Milo’s eyes get so big. We’re talking like Japanese animé big. I can’t imagine what was going through his mind, but it must have been something like, please, can we just get OUT of here and I promise….OMG WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF, because that’s probably what would go through MY mind if somebody entered my personal space in such a way.

And then it was over and she had her…sample. We’ll know if he has parasites sometime this afternoon, and either way, Milo will live to poop another day (and he has…trust me on this one). But later that night Brian and I were running out to this local pizza/sandwich joint to get some awesome panini, so we decided to bring the dogs and while Jericho jumped right in, Milo took one look at the car and took off in the other direction.

Brian chased him down and threw him in the back seat of the car and said to me, “man, that dog has got to learn how to behave.”
And I said to him, “Well, last time he got in the car he got anally raped.”

And that pretty much ended up the conversation because what else can you say?
Poor Milo.
Sometimes, it really SUCKS to be a dog.