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May 2011
You’ll probably recall
that I’ve been paying off Mr Paddidog’s vet bill in gravy bones, even
though the first little nip I gave him was a complete accident and the
second was an ear piercing job that went wrong. It seemed at one time
as though I would never clear my debts and get back on the gravy (bone)
train again, but then Daff came up with an idea.
“There’s a blood donor
session at the vet’s soon,” she said. “If you attend this, it will be
pay-back for all the blood-letting you’ve done in the past and you can
clear your slate.”
It sounded like a good
idea. I wasn’t sure what ‘blood donor’ meant, but I thought it might be
something tasty to do with kebabs and black pudding, so I agreed.
Well, the day
arrived. It was obviously something very out of the ordinary cos most
of the dogs in the waiting room weren’t ill and everyone was very
jolly. Most of them were sizeable labradors, but there was one enormous
rottie (rather like my old friend Uncle Bulgaria who’s now hanging
around Rainbow Bridge) – I thought, bet they can put away a lot of
kebabs, hope there’ll be some left for me – and a gorgeous greyhound
girl who told me her name was Annie. I was just getting pally with
Annie when I was called into a consulting room. John found out in my
absence that Annie was one of the Coal House Dogs, but that didn’t stop
me thinking she was rather dishy, although not as gorgeous as Sandy, the
girl who broke my heart last year.
I thought it was
rather odd that we would be having snacks in a consulting room – I’ve
been to charity dos at Elwood and Briggs before, but we always had
nibbles outside or in the bungalow next door. However, mine was not to
reason why, and all that stuff.
The consulting room,
and the one next door, which I could see into because the connecting
door was open, was full of young lady grown-ups, all very cheerful and
busy. There was also Uncle Alan, who normally has an obsession with my
teeth and keeps wanting me to view their dental suite, but this time he
said he was just there to watch. Watch what, I wondered, surely he’s
seen a dog getting outside a plate of snacks before? I looked round
for signs of black puddings or other equally flavoursome items, but all
I could see were a few dry biscuits.
It was even more
bizarre that after exchanging a few words with Daff, and looking
sympathetically at my poor, crippled feet, one of the young lady
grown-ups stuck a needle in my neck and removed a syringe-full of blood.
Surely we didn’t have to give the blood first to make the black
puddings! Then - they’re going to amputate my feet, I thought in
horror. I was offered a few of the dry biscuits, but they weren’t what
I had in mind, and I politely refused them. Daff said I liked tripe
sticks best, but they said they didn’t have any. And I couldn’t have
eaten anything at a time like this.
Another young lady
grown-up seemed pleased with what was in the syringe, but after that
things started to fall apart. I was taken through into the adjoining
consulting room, hoisted up on the table, and put on my side. Hold on
a minute, I thought, you’ve got it all wrong – I didn’t come here 'cos I
was ill, I came for the offer of doner kebabs. Not my feet – please
– not my feet! They might look funny but I’ve had them a long time
and they’re all I’ve got.
I looked at Daff, but
she just stood back and let them get on with it. And then – would you
believe it! – they stuck another needle in the other side of my neck
with a pipe attached and a bag on the end of it. And there I lay, for
several hours (actually just over five minutes from start to finish –
Ed.) while my lifeblood drained into the plastic bag.
Afterwards I got the
feeling I had done something very special, cos when I got back to the
waiting room, I was offered Chappie (Chappie, indeed, where were
all the kebabs?); photos were taken of me in a silly red bandana; I was
given a goody bag of biscuits and chews and told to take my pick of a
box of toys. Now, the only toys I’m interested in are the ones you can
get all the stuffing out of in ten minutes flat, but there weren’t any,
so I chose a large ball with a strap on it cos I knew the Girls back
home would appreciate it and it might have hurt the grown ups’ feelings
if I said I didn’t want any of them. And now I’m going to be in the
local paper – the same one Daff writes for – so I suppose I must have
done something exceptional. So exceptional, in fact, that they want me
to go again in July. Bother! This time, Daff says she will take my
treats in with us, cos she knows what I like best.
So I found out the
hard way that ‘blood donor’ has nothing whatever to do with black
pudding or other yummy morsels, but apparently I could save the lives
of up to four unfortunate canines with my afternoon’s work. Far better
than that, though, is the fact that I’m now back on gravy bones again.
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