You know that saying “The road to hell is paved with good intentions?”
No. It’s paved with medical bills for animals. For serious. I surely have had enough of them in the past two months to do so. God bless them, the dogs plus Ollie have contributed to well into the four figures in vet bills. And let’s not even talk about MY ER bill. Don’t worry, I’m alive.
Ollie of course has been lame (more to come on that). We lost our poor ancient 16-year-old serial killer/border collie/hell hound mix Sheba (god rest her creepy little soul). Taz ripped his nail out completely in an unfortunate incident involving a fence and a possum.
And then there is Reno. Oh, Reno, you simple-minded, outrageously happy little dog. His “happiness” became a big problem a few weeks ago. Let me start at the beginning.
Meet Reno. He’s a four-year-old, dumb as a pile of bricks, emotionally sensitive, goofy Staffordshire bull terrier mix who loves everyone he meets. Then forgets they exist when they exit a room, and then barks up a storm upon re-entry. Because that must mean they are some kind of a vanishing-reappearing demon. Like I said, not very bright.
So sweet and happy, right? Well.
A few weeks ago, we were getting ready for bed and noticed him panting and looking a little embarrassed. At first we thought nothing of it, as he had just been outside and been super outraged at the yappy shit dog next door. He hates that dog, and I feel ya, bud. It’s OK.
Well, all that outrage apparently got him a little…. excited. And somehow his junk WOULD NOT RETRACT. Like it just stood out there like a Shining Lipstick Beacon of Outrage for all to see. But he wasn’t too proud. We decided that we’d take him to the vet in the morning if he was still having a lipstick party.
THAT WAS THE WRONG CHOICE.
Apparently, this is a doggie Very Special Medical Emergency. There is no “if your doggie’s boner lasts longer than four hours, think about calling a doctor.” It’s apparently more like, “If your doggie has a boner against his will, go to the emergency vet like five minutes ago.” This is a condition called paraphimosis. It’s, like, a big deal. Because it literally cuts off their boner circulation and takes away the happy.
Upon calling the vet promptly at 8 a.m. the next day, were were told to come in LIKE RIGHT NOW. So we did, and we were rushed into an exam room. The vet said, “Oh dear. It’s cold. Let me go take him back and sedate him and get this fixed. We may be dealing with tissue loss here, and then we’re going to have to have another big conversation.”
WORST DOG MOM EVER. I TRIED TO KILL HIS LIPSTICK.
So she took him in the back and came out 25 excruciating minutes later a little sweaty, a little exhausted and maybe a little exasperated. Apparently, his little doggie foreskin had rolled IN ON ITSELF like three times. And she had to work super hard to get it unrolled again. Apparently he had been doing some kind of weird sex torture thing to himself. Or something, I don’t know.
“OK, well the blood flow returned, and it’s starting to get warm again, so he’s going to be OK. But he’s going to be sore. If this happens again, IMMEDIATELY come in or go to the emergency vet after hours. Or you can try to undo it yourself with some honey or lubrication.”
OK THAT’S NOT WEIRD.
So off home we went, and he was to have the cone of shame on for a week. But, god bless his stupid little heart, we learned that he absolutely cannot dog with a cone. It’s like someone took his battery out and he just hangs his head, powerless to dog even a little. His brain so dumb that he can only think one thing at a time, and he was probably thinking “CONE CONE CONE CONE CONE OMG CONE CONE.”
He absolutely literally would not move with the cone on, so we had to take it off and then just watch him like a hawk. But he started to heal and got done with his pain meds, and all was good.
Until two weeks later. It was 10 p.m. DAMNIT, RENO. He did it again. He licked himself past the point of ecstasy and right into self-Viagra territory.
So there we were, weighing our options. I could have a Very Special Moment with Reno and a bottle of lube, or spend a gazillion dollars at the emergency vet.
I opted for a special moment.
I hate to say it, but I did. What can I say… I’m so poor right now that I chose to willingly manipulate my dog’s junk. That’s a new low. So I, um, lubricated his little lipstick, and tried to manipulate it to go back in. It was all super awkward, and we were avoiding eye contact. It was like that one time in college that we all had.
Anyway, I couldn’t get his junk to cooperate. So off we went to the emergency vet. Walked in, and had to tell them the problem.
“Um, our dog’s penis is stuck outside his sheath.”
Receptionist could not help herself and smirked and giggled. Yeah yeah, I know. When we got back into the exam room, the vet looked at him and said, “Uhh… was it this…..floppy…. last time? I think he may have broken the bone.”
ARE YOU KIDDING ME. THIS IS AN ACTUAL THING. WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE.
So my husband and I sat in the exam room, contemplating how to turn Reno into a eunuch and asking each other what they do for a broken boner bone in a dog. Do they make a tiny cast? A little lipstick splint? Whack it off and reroute a pee hole? Seriously, I have questions.
The only thing that distracted me from that rabbit hole of disturbing questions was looking up and getting punched right into my OCD heart.
I MEAN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY?
Right as I was about to throw myself out the window, the vet came in and told me that Reno’s junk was untangled and NOT broken. Thank god. I was so relieved that I didn’t bring myself to ask about the would-be options for broken dog junk. Instead, we paid our outrageous bill, went home and finally went to bed.
Apparently, if this happens again in short order, we’ll be talking surgery to widen his little doggie foreskin. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Until then, I’m keeping a watchful eye on his junk, and hoping to hell the Humane Society doesn’t come to investigate me for crimes against nature.