You would think after what happened to me at the doctor's office yesterday that I would have more sympathy for Rossby, but I don't. If you've ever had a certain kind of male dog, then you already know about regular trips to the V-E-T to have their anal glands expressed. In my family we do this about once a month. Or if, like this time, we get distracted because there are a trillion other things going on, we go when he starts rubbing his ass on the carpet and acting really pitiful and mopey whenever he has to poop.
As usual I tricked him into getting into the car by acting really excited and saying "Wanna go for a ride in the car?!" "Oh boy do I?" he replied, flinging himself at me while I tried to put his harness and leash on. As soon as we got out of the car at the vet's he pulled his normally adorable but not when it's 40 degrees outside and the wind is blowing like 30 miles per hour, you-can't-fool-me-anymore-I-know-exactly-where-we-are leash pulling trick where he arches his back and tries to escape (which, I tell him every time, will only result in him living with another family who is not as receptive to 22 pound dogs who snore and run in their sleep sleeping in their bed, under their down comforters).
I wrangled him inside where I had to yell to the receptionist (because if I get him too close to the counter he will pee on it) "I'm here to have Rossby's nails trimmed and anal glands expressed!" Receptionist: "ANAL GLANDS?!" Me: (now shouting over the rucus caused by Rossby interacting with the other dogs) "Yes, ANAL GLANDS!!" While sitting on a bench waiting our turn the girl next to me told me what an adorable dog he was. I said "Thank you!" and smiled and then looked down and scolded Rossby for trying to eat what looked like cat poop stuck to the leg of the bench. Then the technician, who LOVES Rossby, came to get him for his "little procedure". More back arching, more pulling, me cheerfully telling Rossby what a good boy he is and please go with the nice vet they're not going to kill you will you just RELAX PLEASE!!! Usually the only way the TWO of us (fully grown adult women) can get him (22 pound Jack Russell Terrier) to go to the back is for me to trick him by walking alongside them and the vet closing the door at the last second.
After about ten minutes I heard the technician coming down the hall with Ross saying in a strained-cheerful voice "You don't like to have your anal glands expressed do you? No you don't. You don't you don't you don't. You want your mama? Your mama? Oh I know you do! You're all done. All done big boy! You were such a good boy!" It just kills me how nice they are to him knowing that he probably tries to maul whatever poor technician has the unlucky job of treating him (I've witnessed it a few times, but mostly I know this because they always look really battle weary when they bring him out. Plus, how would you react if someone tried to express your anal glands?). The technician brought Rossby to me and handed me the handle of his leash. "Man, he really hates that doesn't he?" then added "Oh, I think he peed on his leash."
We got back into the car where Rossby looks at me like "Where are we going now?! Can we go to Sonic? Hey my butt feels a lot better!" I wish I could freeze this association in his mind--vet=feel better, but instead we start off fresh with vet=abject terror every time we go. Every time. And I usually take him. Last time, Ryan came with us and Ross was a perfect little angel the whole time. I don't get it.