Walter the Wonder Dog, Part Three

Taking a road trip in a Datsun 210 packed with four people, two cats, one mummy-like-bandage-wrapped dog, plus all the personal belongings needed for vacation is an extreme sport.

The kids did their part to make things festive with a symphony of complaints. “Tell Peter not to touch me!” “Bethany is LOOKING at me!” And the classic, “Are we there yet?”—as if we were driving cross-country instead of just three hours to Camp Singley.

But things didn’t hit full catastrophe mode until the cats busted out of their flimsy cardboard carriers like feline Houdinis. They then spent the next hour perched on my shoulders, sinking their claws into my flesh while performing an ear-piercing opera of outrage.

And then there was Walter the Wonder Dog.

Walter loved car rides. Well, until she didn’t.

“Dad, Walter puked.”

“Of course she did.”

“Just keep your feet off the floor.”

And because we had to keep the windows rolled up (to prevent the escape of the howling banshee cats), we were now marinating in Eau de Dog Vomit for the remainder of the ride.

Dante only imagined nine circles of Hell. We were pioneering the eleventh. Possibly the twelfth.

But hey! We were on vacation! Nothing was going to dampen our spirits. Well…except the part where Walter had to see a vet.

Before leaving, our regular vet, Dr. D, had handed over our freshly stitched and bandaged dog with instructions to find a clinic near Camp Singley to change the dressings in a week. So, armed with a phone book (yes, kids, that was Google before Google), we found a place that seemed a gift of divine intervention: The Holy Spirit Veterinary Clinic.

Thank you, Jesus.

The kids and I loaded Walter up and headed for our divinely chosen destination.

Upon arrival, we stepped into the waiting room and found an elderly receptionist with an angelic white bouffant. She gazed down at her desk, absorbed in…well, nothing. We stood there politely for a good minute before she suddenly noticed us, eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there! May I help you?”

I explained about Walter’s bandages.

She smiled sweetly. “Have a seat. The doctor will see you as soon as he wakes up from his nap.”

Excuse me, what now?

Not wanting to argue with God’s grand plan, I herded the kids toward a stack of Highlights magazines and waited.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Then the receptionist looked up at us again.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there! May I help you?”

Uh-oh.

I re-explained everything.

“Oh, let me wake up the doctor!” she said cheerfully.

Yes, please do.

Several minutes later, she emerged. “The doctor will see you now.”

We followed her into the exam room, where a frail-looking man in a white coat was struggling to get his arms through the sleeves. His hands were shaking. Like, really shaking.

And worse, he smelled like a distillery.

But what were we going to do?

I lifted Walter onto the table and explained Dr. D’s instructions. The vet stared at the bandages, nodded thoughtfully, and reached into a drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors.

He tried to cut the bandages.

His trembling hands made this impossible.

He tried again.

Nope.

Then, with a huff, he shoved the scissors into my hands and grumbled, “Here. YOU do it!”

So, for the “low, low price of one hundred dollars” I changed my own dog’s bandages.

As we walked out, the receptionist looked up.

She smiled warmly.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there! May I help you?”

Um. No.

Driving back to Camp Singley, I had a stern conversation with God about His choice of veterinary clinics.

God’s response?

“The bandages got changed, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, but…”.

“And now you’ve got one hell of a story to tell.”

Touché, Lord. Touché.