A canine report card

"Stuck in a hot, stuffy room for a half hour," I texted my husband, "how much longer before I can throw a great big ol' American fit?" Swaddled in my warm winter coat ("Why didn't you take it off," I was asked later by someone who has never been trapped in a spider web of dog leashes. I always study THAT scene with Jennifer Beals in Flashdance to see how she does it but I am not limber enough to manage leashes or lingerie in such a beguiling manner), I observed my anxiously panting dogs and considered obnoxiously calling the reception desk but then realized that, if an emergency surgery was being conducted, they could justifiably add another "bitch" to their occupancy.

And so we waited, until one of my favorite vets...oops...veterinarians (Clarification:  Brad's my favorite vet) walked in. Years ago, when we first got Chlo, he made an observation that is quoted daily in our home. "You know the only thing better than having a dachshund," he asked before quickly answering his own question, "Two dachshunds."

Juno shines in this environment. Literally. She emits a heavenly aura or an alien-like tractor beam that draws admirers for miles while Chlo attempts to climb my legs like a lumberjack to seek shelter in my hair, balancing on my shoulders like a puppy-parrot. From the moment she steps over the threshold, everything is against her. First obstacle...taking her weight. Let's just say the scale is NOT Chlo's friend. Her hair is VERY heavy! And no amount of coddling or peanut butter bribery will detract Chlo from that 3 inch needle coming her way. But, for me, this day was different. On this day, the girls each got a glowing report card! That's right! A report card! So exciting and validating! We were praised for our excellent teeth care (I may have blushed a bit). When my veterinarian considered which box to check determining "attitude" (normal, abnormal and not evident), his pen never wavered. I held my breath as we approached the spirit-crushing matter of Chlo's weight  before launching into a detailed explanation regarding the heft of her hair, theories about winter-weight, and promises that she'll run it off during summer soccer. "She's not overweight," I was told as the pen itched to create a new category between "ideal" and "overweight."  To my delight, "ideal" was circled. "She's well-loved," I was told, finally escaping the tiny room. I couldn't wait to get home to put their report cards on the refrigerator!