Don’t take that headline too literally! I didn’t actually hiccup at my annual physical last week. It was just that a few minor issues arose on this visit. I got a bit nervous while I was there, frankly, from the moment I stepped on the scales. Everyone was watching me, and touching me, and I didn’t know any of them. But I weighed in at a svelte 17.5 pounds, once I settled down enough to make the electronic scale register correctly. That’s 1.3 pounds less than I weighed there last September! I knew Mike should be giving me more to eat, and now I can prove it. Unfortunately, Dr. Kimmel, my personal physician, advised against it. “Keep her thin,” I clearly heard her tell Mike. “Her weight is perfect.” Dammit.
When we got in the examination room, I sat nervously in Mike’s lap until one of the new assistants took my temperature. You know where, too, right up the old Hershey Highway. This must be what Mike feels when he gets his annual prostate exam, because when I put my front paws up around his neck and glommed tightly onto him while this foul procedure was happening, I could tell that he could feel my pain. We bonded.
And having my temperature taken wasn’t even the worst of it. Dr. Kimmel also told Mike that I had too much waxy gunk deep inside my left ear, so now Heather’s going to have to clean my ears more often for at least a couple of weeks, and I hate it, treats or no treats. And then the doctor showed Mike that he’s missing spots on my rear upper teeth when he brushes them. A small section of plaque buildup is forming, marring my otherwise spotless choppers. Again, this likely means more agony for me from the fingertip toothbrush of that Mean Mr. Mike.
On the plus side, Dr. Kimmel pointed out that I have avoided anal sac draining and the recurring skin problems that brothers Frank and Stanley endure. Maybe that’s the result of all of those diet extras (veggies, eggs and broth) that Mike adds to all my meals. Of course, my easy-going disposition also has a lot to do with maintaining my excellent physical health.
When my lab results came back the next day, however, we found out something was amiss: Despite my preventive medication, I’ve contracted a worm, an internal parasite. Disgusting, isn’t it? Even worse, I caught it from sniffing the poop of those asshole raccoons who live in the trees in back of the unoccupied white house next door. The heck with PETA; I hope somebody shoots those foul critters, if I can’t first get to them first myself. They have supplanted the Bartons’ cat as No. 1 on my enemies list.
Anyway, Heather got a prescription from the vet and Mike had to sprinkle some white powder on my dinner for three consecutive days (I don’t think it was cocaine, either) and repeat the same dosage in two weeks. Then he has to bring another stool sample to the vet, and hopefully that new poop will restore my clean bill of health.
In the meantime, I’m feeling fine, but somehow violated. I survey the trees behind the house every morning before my breakfast, looking for those damn raccoons. Just wait until the next time I see them. Nobody’s going to hold me back.