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PEPPER AND THE ANAL GLAND
Late last year Pepper the poodle, David the Floridian, and I – a British import, moved into a house on the Long Beach Peninsula. We went through the usual process of relocating to a new state. Driver’s license, utilities sign up, library membership, finding the grocery stores, getting to know our neighbourhood. As yet, we hadn’t looked for a pet doctor. This lapse was about to be rectified.
It was Monday morning, and I sat at my home office desk. I felt a tap on my knee. My dog Pepper gazed up, her paw still on my leg. After five years of owning this animal, I have learned poodle speak. Her lowered ears and searching eyes warned me — um, watch, any minute I’ll do something disgusting on the carpet.
Huh? I returned to my important task of finding a grooming tool of the calibre suitable for fancy pants poodles.
There was silence, then I heard a ‘whoosh’.
Yup, it was butt-scooting. Dog-centric folks know, — This Was Not Good. If you were not fond of dogs, then seeing a butt-scooter in action made you think it was a great idea to own a cat instead.
I’m squeamish, a complete and unashamed coward. I cannot cope with needy creatures. My heartstrings twang and my peripheral vision fades. Before I changed into a pumpkin, I picked up the hairy little creature and hauled her to David.
We shared dog duties. The feeding, appointment booking, and overall spoilsport were my jobs. David tackled the medical side. He puts drops in her ears, trims her toenails, and gives her a bath. This latest misery was in his bailiwick.
Do your animal husbandry bit, please, she’s scooting. Dumping Pepper into his arms, I tried not to overthink and walked back into the living room. I didn’t move fast enough. Her bloodcurdling yelp went straight to my breast violin and played a tune. Every single thought vanished from my head, making it hollow.
Only a gentle touch, and she screeched. There’s something nasty happening. This, from my husband, who was moving toward his bathroom. He settled her on the vanity top, under the light. I pointed a flashlight at the poodle’s bottom. I was unsuited to be a nurse.
Her skin was pale peach, and her hair was black. He brushed the fluff away and an alien burst into view. It was terrifying. Our girl quivered, her toenails scratched on the embossed surface. Indignation, fear or pain, a mixture. A rational apprehension. Our reaction couldn’t have inspired confidence. This foreigner looked large, pink, and throbbing.
I’ve never had a reason to Google ‘anal gland’. Given a choice, I preferred not to involve myself with any subject related to the anus. The surreal image on the computer screen only convinced me further. Ugh.
Right. Vet, said David. Call Oceanside Animal Clinic and try to remember your name and the name of your dog. Be British and calm.
Ten minutes later, we piled into the Subaru. The patient was in her backseat basket. David was driving, and I huddled next to him. Whimpers from behind as we navigated the road from Surfside to Seaview.
If Pepper was in her booster bucket, it usually meant she was heading somewhere for fun. A spot where poodles could play. She told us how happy she was by singing. Joyful birdlike noises. She had a sweet giggle and an ear-busting yowl when things got exciting. During puppy hood, she warbled ‘Mama’. True story, as corroborated by David.
The sound from the back seat was not the usual anticipatory opera.
After what felt like fifty years, we pulled up to the Clinic. To our relief, there was a parking space. I let them know we arrived while David unlatched his girl from her seat. Gads, we needed to fill in forms.
The call came and off we went, carrying our injured animal into an examination room. Kassidy filled in the details on the computer. Do you mind if we shave her hair? What is her weight? I watched the technician’s face and wanted her to make everything right for my precious pet.
A man as tall as my husband entered the room and whisked away our dog. We draggled back to the chairs in the main reception area. Through the noise machine filling my hollowed-out head, I could hear her.
Too much. I needed a breath of fresh air; I informed the women at the desk, pacing right past them and through the door, muttering to myself.
When I returned to the reception area, David was reading something on his phone and looked up as I approached him. The tall vet appeared with envelopes, pills, and a sweet smile. The technician carried the naked-bottomed canine and put her in front of us on the floor. Pepper was sore but fine, the vet explained.
I could give you a blow-by-blow account of what happens when an anal gland ruptures, or even what an anal gland might be. I could, but I won’t. You may recall I steered clear of anything anus related. Google it.
We put her in a diaper. We had some pads left over from her first heat. They were exactly like disposable nappies for babies, except there was a hole for the tail. We gave up putting the ‘collar of shame’ on her. She wrangled out of it.
Pepper languished about like a Victorian lady with the vapours. Then the medicine kicked in. Twice a day, she ate her pills, which were concealed in a peanut butter coating.
The story had a happy ending. Of course, I wouldn’t be writing it if things had turned out another way. She went back to prancing around, chasing balls, and tricking Daddy into giving her treats.
We put a monthly reminder in the calendar to ‘Squeeze anal glands’.