A trip to the vet

Bonnie, our soon-to-be 14-year-old dachshund, has been scratching her left ear for a couple of days. When I flopped the ear over to look inside, it was obvious it is infected. So I called our long-time vet, Dr. Morton (not his real name). He said to bring her in immediately.

Dr. Morton is our kinda guy. He wears aloha shirts and sandals, doesn’t believe in needless vaccinations, went to the same university my wife and I attended at the same time we did (though none of us knew each other) and, most important, is the only person we’ve ever met who is even more over the top about his dog, a Chihuahua named Olive, than we are about our dachshunds.

Dr. Morton  acquired Olive several years ago when her elderly owner passed away. Olive was a welcome addition to his life because his wife who, for years, had served as his receptionist, had just left him and moved to Ohio.

This morning when Bonnie and I arrived, I was surprised to see his wife – maybe she’s still his ex-wife, I didn’t ask the status of the relationship – back behind the reception desk.

“How’s Olive?” I asked Dr. Morton while we were in an examination room waiting for his assistant to fill Bonnie’s prescription. “Oh, she’s fine. We woke up at two this morning and kissed and cuddled for an hour then went back to bed.”

I laughed, knowing he wasn’t exaggerating.  

 “My wife said, ‘You love that dog more than you ever loved me.’ Know what I told her?”

“What?”

“Olive never divorced my ass and took me to the cleaners like you did.”

I laughed all the way home and, I swear, Bonnie was laughing, too.