So yesterday I got up early, threw some jeans on, then carried Daphne (still in her PJs) and a lame-legged Alex out into the Juke.

First, Daphne had to be dropped off at my dad’s place (and MANY thanks for taking that unexpected one on, Dad), after which I drove Alex to his ACL surgery appointment.  I’d actually considered bringing Daphne with me, but the prospect of carrying both her and Alex seemed a bit too much to take on, and the vet tech had already requested that I muzzle Alex for them when I dropped him off.

I don’t like sitting above my dogs when they’re nervous, so I sit on the floor with them in the waiting room.  And I wish this were a more uncommon occurrence…

That was an amusing exchange, actually.

So back on Tuesday, when I brought Alex in for the consultation on his leg, the tech dismissed me with a hand wave when I told her she should be careful and that he could be aggressive.

“Nah. Once dogs are away from their owner they tend to calm right down and don’t feel as defensive.  He’ll be fine.”

I replied that, while that might be true for most dogs, this was definitely not the case with Alex.  He’s actually more compliant if I’m nearby.  She assured me that they could handle it, and walked him out of the room.

[3 MINUTES PASS]

The vet tech returns with a slightly sheepish look on her face.  Alex is beaming with doggy triumph.

“So…uh.  Could you get this muzzle on him for us?  He won’t let us near him.”
“You got it.”
I gently slip the muzzle on Alex without so much as a growl, and hand the leash back.
“Wow.  I…okay.  Wow.  You are definitely ‘daddy.’”
“Yes.  Yes I am.”

Anyway, they made a note that I should be the one to muzzle him when I dropped him off yesterday morning.  And doing that with Daphne, in a room full of other injured animals, seemed like the proverbial, Bad Idea™.

So I dropped Alex off, then drove back to my Dad’s place to pick up Daphne and bring her back home, all so I could start getting ready for work.

The rest of the day went as planned, although I heard later that Little Miss D. was less than pleasant when visiting her great-grandmother.  (Unless you find the non-stop wailing of an infant for over an hour to be “pleasant.”  In which case, God help you.)

Now, after such a long day I was really hoping for a bit of uninterrupted snooze time.  So we filled the kid with applesauce and rice cereal, then put her to bed with a silent plea that she sleep peacefully.

Alas, you know exactly where this is going…

Midnight:  “GRAAAAAAAAAH!  GRAHAAAHHH!”    [Translation:  I am woman, and I am hungry.  Hear me roar.]

1:30am:   *scratch*scratch*scratch*  “whine!”  *scratch*scratch*scratch*   [Translation:  “Please sir, my bladder is full to bursting.  I realize you are asleep, and that you admonished me to ‘handle my business’ earlier, but I’m afraid you must awaken and open the poop portal immediately.”

3:30am:  “GRAAAAAAAAAH!  GRAHAAAHHH!”   [Translation:  Are you people trying to starve me?  Bottle, old man.  Stat.”

5:30am:  “GRAAAAAAAAAH!  GRAHAAAHHH!”   [Translation:  Yeah.  That last bottle?  Eons ago.  Snap to it, Jeeves.  And don’t skimp on the Similac.”

7:30am:  “Burble burble!  WHEEE!  BABBLEGOO!  NAAA!  EEEEEEEOOO!”  [Translation:  “I am awake.  And so must you be.  Come get me.”]

And that about catches you up.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to crawl under my desk and try to nap…

j.s.