Bad news: This is (yet another) story about the puppy. But this one involves sexual promiscuity and foul language and actions so legitimately illegal that I, the girl to whom self-censureship is essentially a foreign concept, honestly hesitated before putting it online.
Of course, being someone who feels strongly that fear of arrest is a key indicator of a solid blog post, I’ve decided just to go for it. (Please don’t call the police – my only experience on how to handle them derives directly from rap song references and that one time I was chased out of a party in high school.)
The trouble started on Monday, as we all recovered from an eventful birthday weekend: Rachel from a bit too much champagne and cupcakes, Dave from a bit too much girl talk and Franny from a bit too much attention. Seriously, being fawned over and petted and generally worshipped for 48 hours can be a little overwhelming, and it had apparently started to take its toll on the puppy. She spent most of Monday morning barking and crying and attempting to swat us with her paw.
“What a little attention whore,” we said to ourselves, convinced that she had been spoiled by all of her suitors and the presents they trucked up to Apartment 4. (Seriously, girlfriend got more presents than me. And she is very, very far from 26.)
Things got a little fishier on Monday evening when she proceeded to have two accidents on the living room carpet. This was weird for a few reasons: a) she’s supposedly potty trained (although it’s not hard to imagine we somehow fucked this process up to the extent that she would spontaneously start spraying urine across the apartment at 4.5 months) and b) more troubling, she didn’t seem to be pre-meditating said accidents; rather, she seemed to be really, truly losing control of her bladder. Like something out of an ad for old people diapers.
We murmured a bit to ourselves about it, throwing out possible causes, but eventually decided to table the topic (read: ignore and pretend it never happened.) Until this morning, at 4 a.m., when I was awoken by super pathetic cries and then totally creeped out to discover a certain dog sitting not far from my head.
Said scenario never would or could have happened even a few days ago, because Franny was still sleeping in her crate. But Friday brought the dawning of a new era, one marked by the arrival of her big girl bed, a perfectly preppy L.L. Bean round that harkened back to the beds of Toby that Franny had fallen in love with in Connecticut and Vermont. Admittedly, it was a little unclear if she actually enjoyed said beds or just enjoyed the look on the sad old man’s face (technically my dad, not Toby) when he saw that she had urinated on the fluffy thing that read “T-o-b-y.” Either way, we thought we’d give it a go.
And, lo and behold, the allure of the bed wasn’t just limited to the potential of pissing off Toby. When the new one came, with her name written in block lettering (we thought script might confuse her burgeoning knowledge of the English alphabet), she immediately sprawled out on it. Girlfriend was pleased, to say the least.
She did a good job on the big girl bed Sunday night, and Monday night too, but the crying on Tuesday night did not bode well for her ability to handle such a privilege. And, sure enough, when Dave and I went to examine the situation, we found yet another little present on the bed. Something was up.
I immediately turned to my trusty medical advisor (Google, obv., not the hundreds of medical professionals that surround me on a daily basis) and came up with a swift diagnosis: UTI. A UTI! Of course. I frequently (jokingly, lovingly) call Franny an ignorant slut (it’s from a classic SNL skit, don’t judge me) and here it was, my prophecy coming true. Girlfriend got a disease most common to high schoolers experimenting with their sexuality and making unsanitary decisions. Of course this would happen to my puppy. Classic.
A few hours later, I made Dave take her to the vet, where they proceeded to take our money and kind of throw their hands in the air, per usual. They wanted a urine sample before they made a diagnosis; Dave had a hard time wrapping his head around just how he would collect a clean sample from a puppy who either relieves herself sitting down on dirty snowbanks or has spontaneous releases on our carpet. The vet acknowledged that a week’s worth of amoxycilin wouldn’t hurt the precious pooch and would definitely clear things up if she indeed had a UTI. But would she like to prescribe said drug? No, not really. Instead, she gave us info on the recommended dosing and sent us off with the recommendation to call a people doctor who might be able to prescribe it for us.
Not that we know anyone like that, as the med school gang is still several years from that privilege and my dad is honestly more liberal with his administering of diamond jewelry than prescription drugs. Attempts to get antibiotics from him are notoriously futile: he wants proof that your mucus is harboring bacteria, stat. (In contrast, I was able to haggle a diamond pendant from him in exchange for attending our last family ski vacation.) Last year, when a friend at Harvard beseeched the good doctor for profilactiv swine flu meds after discovering his former hookup had come down with the ailment, my dad not only declined, but cited specific unmet criteria outlined in Harvard’s med school’s own guide to dealing with swine flu risk. The good doctor, he’s good.
Still, we decided it was worth a try. First, I called my dad, begging him to assist his precious granddaughter. When he inevitably shot down my request (“you want me to call in a script? for your dog? under Dave’s name? are you crazy?”), I passed the phone to the good-doctor-to-be, who babbled some stuff that sounded vaguely more legit. He hung up the phone, smirking a little. Voila, Dad was on board. He would call in the script now. Yay us for saving a few bucks and nursing our puppy back to health all on our own.
Of course, our metaphorical high five came a little too soon. Not two hours later, my father called back. He had just been contacted by the pharmacist, who informed him that David has a penicillin allergy, and was he really sure he ought to be prescribing an antibiotic of the same make?
The puppy, she may be a slut, but the med student, three months shy of having that sparkly title in front of his name: he’s an idiot.
Looks like we’re worse at this whole illegal drug ring thing than we thought.