So, Lil’ Frankfurter is back at the vet. Or, as I’m coming to think of it, his day spa. He barfs and refuses to eat in the morning, so I take him in. Then, as soon as I leave, he’s all, “Why, yes! I’d love to eat!” And they dote on him and my tab climbs and climbs.
Basically, he won’t eat for me because I put pills in his food. The vet gives him the meds via injection, so Lil’ Frank’s sensitive palate can enjoy his luxurious prescription canned dog food.
The vet promised to cut me a deal on the injections. Frank is booked at the day spa again tomorrow. And yes, I know how to shove the pills down his throat, but this seems to be the path of least resistance. At this point, I just don’t want him to bite me again.
The people at the vet are sooooo nice. Like, ridiculously nice. Today, as I was dropping off the kidlet, the office manager said, “Cha Cha, I’m so sorry about your week. I know this is stressful.”
As I left, I realized that I haven’t cried all week.
That’s weird for me. I’m a crier. It’s a skill that’s been passed down from generation to generation. My mom and I typically cry in weird places like the floor of the bathroom, or in a laundry room. I’m also particularly adept at crying while driving because I think that people can’t see me.
The other day, I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw that the woman in the car behind me was sobbing. So, it’s not just me. I wanted to pull over and hug her, but, well, that would shatter the illusion of being invisible.
Maybe I haven’t cried because I’ve never actually thought Lil’ Frank was going to die. Or maybe I’m too tired. I feel like I’m on autopilot. Maybe I’ll freak out later … later, when I’m eating Ramen for three months because all of my money went to the vet.
Or maybe I’m just a badass and everything is just fine and I’m just fine and it’s all just fine. Dammit.