Random Esquire

I’ve a story about my lousy day.  Want to hear it?  Here it go.

1.  I drop Little Filthy off at the vet at 7 this morning for his 6 month poke and prod.  I then pick up a bag of dog food, some toys and (now I’m embarrassed to say) some conditioner.  I get to the counter and swipe my credit card.  The cashier looks at me and said, “Your card wasn’t approved.”

*blink*

I say, “That’s bizarre!”  I swipe it again.   She shakes her head, “No. Not approved.”  Now, I don’t know this woman.  I don’t really care what she thinks.  Until now.  Until now that my credit card has been declined.  Mind you, I don’t carry a balance and am so obsessed with having great credit that I’ve been called FICO Psycho.  I know nothing is wrong with my credit card and I have to resist the urge to lean over and say, “I am not a bum.”  Which I realize is nuts.  But there you have it.

Now, I had just run Boss to CostCo earlier in the week to get some things and she’d paid me back with a crisp new $100 bill.  I pull it out and hand it to the cashier.  She looks at me skeptically, pulls out her fake-money pen and marks it.  Then she holds it up to the light and scrutinizes it.  Of course I feel like the shadiest bastard ever because first my card wasn’t approved and then I paid her with a hundred.  I’m now convinced she thinks I’m a bum with bum bills. Bill passes the test and I’m on my way back home.  (Later found out something was wrong with their machine and my card was fine. Sheesh.)

2.  The vet calls.  Little Filthy is in great shape.  Except…one thing.  Of course.  The monster has a little tartar.  You’d think I’d been filling his mouth with skittles and marshmallows before bed time, the way she said it.  You may recall my mission to brush Little Filthy’s teeth and the subsequent intervention I had to have with the little guy.  Dog owner FAIL.

3.  I go to pick up the monster.  I get the bill and it seems low.  I said, “Did you microchip him?”  The nurse says, “Oh…were they supposed to? Let me go back and see.”  She disappears into the back and then comes back out and announces to the room full of dog owners, “They couldn’t restrain him long enough to get the chip in.”  I go crimson.  I say, “Can we try it now and I’ll hold him?”  She says, “Let me go ask.”  She disappears into the back.  She returns almost immediately afterward and says, “They don’t want to.”

At this point, I just want the beast so we can go home.  And everyone in the waiting room is dying to see what sort of monster I’m raising.  She goes back to get Little Filthy.  He comes trotting out, lays at my feet, sets his head on my shoes and promptly falls asleep while I pay the bill.  I manage a wry smile in response to the grins of the waiting room folks as we leave.

*sigh*  It’s exhausting going to the vet.  For both of us.