A week ago, we were lucky enough to bring our dog home from the emergency veterinary hospital.  She had some very bad mystery infection, emergency surgery, and then a series of ups and downs that made for an extremely draining week (both emotionally and financially).  But we brought her home, and in the week since, she’s appeared to quickly rebound and is amazingly almost completely back to her old self.  We’re still cautiously optimistic since no one really knows what caused the infection or where it actually was, and we want to see how she does after she’s off the antibiotics. That said, she’s home and we feel very fortunate.

When my lovely wife and I were at the veterinary hospital last weekend, an interesting interaction occurred.  First, an older woman came in hurriedly.  She said she needed help bringing her dog in from the car.  The young lady behind the desk asked what was wrong with the dog, but it didn’t register and the woman repeated her need for assistance.  Someone was dispatched to help out, and the staff member tried again to get more information.  “He’s been vomiting and panting a lot,” the woman answered as she turned to walk back to her car.  “Ma’am, what’s your pet’s name?” She yelled out a name while exiting.  I don’t remember exactly what it was, but it was something like Fletcher, and I thought it was a pretty good dog name.

When the lady returned, the vet staff was getting the dog from the car.  “Ma’am, you said Fletcher is vomiting and panting?”  She confirmed that and added a few more details.  “And what’s your last name?”  “Fletcher,” she said.  “Oh, ok, so that’s not the dog’s name?”  “No.”  The lady then proceeded to give a name, but it ended up being her name instead of the dog’s.  On the third attempt, she provided the dog’s actual name (which I don’t remember but it wasn’t as solid as Fletcher).  “And is he neutered?” “Of course,” said the woman.

Here’s the thing: I was in the middle of forming a sentence about that response.  I was even already in the process of turning to my wife to comment on it.  I probably would’ve said something like, “‘Of course?’ If it were that obvious, they probably wouldn’t have to ask everyone.”  I didn’t get to do that though, because the lady had a second part to her sentence: “Of course…otherwise he’d be my husband.”  My lovely wife and I looked at each other with the same exact expression.  “Did she…?”  “I think so.”  “What does that even mean?”  “I have no idea.”  “But…but…” “I really have no idea.”

We had a lot on our minds at the time, but I quickly emailed myself that quote for a future post.  Now that I have the benefit of time and brain space, I still have no fucking clue what that means.  At the heart of her statement, she’s saying, “If my dog still had the ability to procreate, he and I would be married.  Since he can’t, there’s no reason to make it official.”  I just have no idea what to do with that.  Does his lack of balls make him less attractive to her now?  Or since he can’t make her a baby, it’s just empty sex with no real strings attached?  But that brings me back to the “Of course” answer from before.  Now that’s even weirder.  “Of course I had him neutered, you moron.  Otherwise the temptation would be too great to marry and settle down with him!  Society isn’t ready for that – slippery slope and all.  If they let me marry him, then people would want to start marrying their plants and bicycles.  Too bad, ’cause he’s damn sexy.”

To repeat: “Is he neutered?”  “Of course…otherwise he’d be my husband.”  I think I speak for all of us when I sincerely ask, “What the fucking fuck?”  Good luck, Not Fletcher; I hope you’re healed, back at home, and successfully fighting off the advances of your owner.