The poor old dog is sick. He had a lump on his head so I decided I’d better take him to the vet, and the vet said Jesus Christ, that’s a fuckin tumour.
I told you he was sick.
What to do?
Bring him in on Monday morning, said the vet, and I’ll cut it off. Send it away for a biopsy.
And? I said.
It might be nothing.
Or he might be fucked.
I see, I said. Well don’t spare my fucking feelings anyway.
I won’t, he assured me.
This isn’t the same vet who patched Satan back together after he got rolled over by a jeep. This is a much rougher class of individual, but he’s cheaper.
So I brought the dog to the small animal hospital this morning and deposited him with the vet from hell. Call me about six, he said, and we’ll see how things go.
So I did. I phoned about six o’clock.
I removed that, he said. But we did a scan while he was knocked out, and I’ll need to talk to you about it.
Fuck, I said. That sounds ominous.
Jesus, I hate it when they take that tone. Do vets and doctors do a special module on patronising their customers?
An hour later I’m standing in front of him. What’s all this about a scan?
We did an ultrasound, and there’s … well, there’s something inside his abdomen. A mass.
Like, you mean, another growth?
I see, I said. And could it have anything to do with the fact that he got squashed by my neighbour’s jeep back in September?
Hmm, he grimaced. Could be. Maybe a haematoma. Or an enlarged spleen.
So perhaps the hound of Satan isn’t yet finished. We’ll know in a few weeks, but for the moment, the poor old devil has a row of staples across the top of his head.