The King took The Royal Canines to the veterinarian office for their yearly check up after months of polite reminding, leading to eventual screaming “we live in the woods with rabid animals dear and I will not take your for rabies shots after they bite you.” This responsibility is clearly outlined in that marital responsibilities contract I still cannot locate.
Mr. Frodo, who weighs in excess of 100 pounds, is hauled up on the table, receives the necessary shots and invasion of his orifices. The vet begins the usual mantra of why on earth this animal is so large and other items that outline our canine neglect.
Mr. Frodo is 5 years old and has well, let’s say he has never gotten lucky. The female vet grabs his ”sacks” starts massaging them and indicates to The King that she could remove them. Mr. Frodo is thrilled for all human contact, but this personal service is exceeding his expectations. The King is speechless, very uncomfortable and unable to make eye contact with the kind lady who has cared for our animals for years. He swears the site of our vet having foreplay with our labrador is shocking to his manhood moral compass. Yeah right, this is the same man who volunteered Mr. Frodo’s services to a co-worker if his female lab was looking for a friend with benefits. Now I know the love of my life has watched his share of porn, but it he swears it did not include animal fondling while discussing heartworms, dietary concerns and flea protection for a full three minutes.
The King’s annual check-up with our family physician is in a few months, bet he has a flash black. Especially, if a reminder is casually dropped at the right time, because clearly that is my job. The King may now be suffering from Post Traumatic Vet Visit Disorder. Not only because he had to witness one of our dogs getting hot action in the vet’s office, but he was graciously permitted to pay $458 for the pleasure.
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