So now that the weather isn’t doing anything very eventful, it’s time that I get back to talking about my other favorite cliché topic: the dogs.
Noah went in for his annual check-up on Wednesday to confirm that he is healthy and rabies-free. Other than Buster’s extreme and inconsolable jealousy at the sight of Noah getting to spend one-on-one time alone with Brian, the visit went well. They confirmed that Noah is healthy, and gave him all of his shots to make sure he stays that way. I didn’t get to go to the vet with them, so Brian told me about it that evening when I got home.
Well on Thursday evening (yesterday), I walked into the kitchen and found a little paper bag from our vet’s office with something in it. I pulled it out, assuming it was going to be some kind of medicine or something that they told us to give Noah. Instead what I pulled out was an empty little canister with Noah’s name written on the outside. I turned to Brian and innocently asked, “What’s this for?” Brian then very casually informed me that it was for Noah’s stool sample.
Me: “His stool sample? Did they not take it at the vet?”
B: “No, apparently their new policy is that it has to be collected at home and brought in.”
Me: “Um, excuse me? They want us to collect his poop and bring it back in?”
This apparently did not phase my very laid back husband. Maybe I’m crazy, but doesn’t it seem like the vet gets paid to do that kind of thing? Fortunately for me, I’m married. Because if I was a single girl and the vet asked me to do that, I would say too bad, so sad, my dog’s poop is going to stay in the backyard where it belongs.
So anyway, Brian’s plan is to collect the “sample” (sick) today after he feeds the dogs. My question is this: does Brian know the dogs that much better than I do that he can distinguish between their poop? If so, that’s pretty impressive.
And if I haven’t talked about poop enough already, it’s time for an embarrassing story that I was reminded of upon discovering the vet’s at-home assignment:
The summer after 6th grade, I spent a considerable amount of time with various friends at the neighborhood’s public pool, also known as the Communicable Disease Capital of the World. I’m sure this has something to do with my snobby Highland Park roots, but for some reason I am fairly convinced that a public pool is more germ-infested than a private pool. So anyway, I am blaming my frequency of visits to the public pool that summer for the stomach virus that plagued me toward the end of that summer.
As the start of school was approaching and my mom didn’t want my stomach issues to interfere with my rigorous 7th grade academic endeavors (ha), she decided to schedule an appointment for me with the pediatrician. I remember very little about the visit up until the very end, when the nurse handed me an empty plastic container (not unlike a cool whip container) with my name written on the outside. I gave her the same blank stare that I gave Brian and asked what it was for. And she responded with those same two horrible words: “stool sample.”
Again…excuse me? You want me to do what? They had to be joking. Surely they did not just hand an empty container to an 11-year-old girl and ask her to poop in it and bring it back to their office. And I thought peeing in a cup was disgusting.
That plastic container stayed empty hidden away somewhere for a good 2 years until we moved to Austin and I threw it away, because as you can imagine, at the age of 11, I would have preferred death from a stomach parasite over complying with their request. And fortunately whatever was going on with my stomach went away, because I eventually got better. Either that or I'm still dying a slow death and am just not aware of it.
If my mom read my blog, I know she would be really proud to learn that I just devoted an entire blog entry to poop. You’re welcome, Mom!