My dog’s butt is sick.
At the ripe old age of 11, faced with his first chance at some kind of medical problem, he skipped cancer, epilepsy, hypothyroidism or diabetes.
Francis went with an ill butt.
What started as an intense enthusiasm for his butt, morphed into a licking mania which at one point had me donning Bose headphones so I didn’t have to listen to the slurping, gnashing and chomping. I felt like I was listening in on a one man dog porno entitled ‘Hairy Ass Loving: Bite It Until It Bleeds’.
So I took him to the vet. No one is having that much frenzied sex in my house.
And I was rewarded by an infection. Which turned into a mysterious shape. That turned into the specter of ass cancer which $1400 later turned into a ‘self made body’.
Oh yes. My dog grew a living, growing tumor in his butt that was basically feeding on his ‘output’.
(I still feel faint)
I mentally decided that he needed to live on a farm for the remainder of his life. If it was going to turn into something from ‘The Thing’ or ‘Alien’ there was no way I was sticking around for that finale. But I was assured it could be destroyed. And without Sigourney Weaver.
So while I eat noodles for the rest of the month, my dog rests his spoiled head on his inflatable collar, sighs on waves of relaxation from his meds, and we both try valiantly to ignore whatever’s going on below the waist.
I’m assured he’ll make a full recovery. My imagination may not.