“Panty, Queasy and Fainty”*

*aka “Tice,” Lynda, And Lori

by Lynda Adame

The thought of going to the vet makes me faint! Marcia Herman

Please do not continue reading this story if you are a squeamish type. Consider yourself warned.

Today was Tice’s return trip to the veterinarian; our first trip back since her toe amputation surgery. Since I drive a hatchback (Honda CRX) and I have a herniated disc in my back, I coerced my friend Lori to join us and assist me in lifting Tice in and out of the back of the car. Lori was happy to help us.

As we pulled into the parking lot of the veterinarians, Tice began to pant. By the time we got into the waiting room, Tice was shaking so hard she was vibrating across the floor, drooling, and her heart beat was well over 180 bpm (I think we can safely assume she doesn’t like going to the vets anymore).

The vet tech (sweet but dim) arrived and began cutting the bandage off. Tice was staring straight ahead with a vacant look on her face. I knew that whatever this girl was doing to Tice was hurting her. The panting level turned up a notch.

At one point I was forced to re-direct the scissors as the girl was starting to cut right over the amputated area. I asked for the Vet, please. I also asked for a bowl of water to soak the bandage off. In came a bowl of water. Two minutes later the water was so red that it had to be changed. I began to work, work, work, the wet bandage until it pulled off. I’m feeling sick and very light headed. The vet was still not in the room, the wound was bleeding all over, and Tice was shivering and panting and panting and panting.

Lori says, “I don’t feel so good. I wish the vet would get here.” I am near panic. At that moment the vet entered the room. I saw spots swimming before my eyes and I sat down hard. The vet began to examine the wound and was pleased with the healing. All of a sudden the vet screamed, “She’s going down!” while my friend Lori faints. Lori hits the wall (with her head) and then slammed to the floor. The vet tech ran out of the room, Tice lost her balance, and I remained seated — feeling faint myself and yet horrified that my friend has surely died. The vet made sure Tice was OK, then moved to assist Lori, who had now sprung up into a full seated position with a wild confused look on her face. Vet yelled for vet tech, who came in, white faced, with a piece of candy for Lori to eat. Vet was pleased that Lori was up so quickly and unhurt, vet was pleased that Tice was healing so well, vet was pleased that I did not faint as well. The vet wrapped Tice up in a huge pretty pink bandage. Tice was still panting like a freight train. What a lovely picture we made: panty, queasy and fainty. Needless to say, we will not be in direct attendance at Tice’s next toe bandaging. Lori is fine. Tice is fine. I am fine.

CG W 97

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