I was sick into my lap as I drove my car this afternoon.
Mr Anna May, who can’t drive at the moment since his hip replacement surgery, was helpful and held a carrier bag under my chin. But it was tricky because he was retching himself. And the carrier bag had holes in it.
The trigger for the puking was stood on the back seat and wagging his tail.
Half an hour earlier Mr Anna May and I had been enjoying an afternoon cup of tea and a cream slice apiece. This is an essential part of his daily convalescence routine.
Just as I raised my mug of tea to my lips the dog leapt up, evidently uncomfortable, and started to yelp and turn in circles. My husband commented how liquid was leaking from his (the dog’s not Mr Anna May’s) bottom. And the kitchen suddenly smelt like fart bomb blended with stale patchouli oil and wheely bin juice.
I called the vet who said come immediately and transferring the dog and his smell from a big kitchen into a small car meant we both retched for 3 miles. In bad traffic.
To cut a pong story short the dog needed his anal glands milked. Yes, you read that correctly.
To carry out this manoeuvre ( cost, £85) the vet decided he would glove up and bend forward from the waist to do the deed while the dog was stood on the floor. I suggested it might be easier if the dog was positioned on the treatment table, but the vet poo-pooed that idea……