I Feel Sorry For My Future Children

I’m a worry wart. I spend much of my time waiting for the oh-so proverbial shoe to drop square on my face, reinforcing my Chicken Little thoughts that the sky is indeed falling. Yes, one could say I need to take a chill pill. So it goes without saying that my fur-child Abbey, who is the apple of my eye, is a well-monitored and cared for pup. I would do anything for that crazy wily little (medium-sized) dog.


(Chillin’ in a spring at RedRock before the Vet)

As the crazily anxiety-ridden person that I am, Abbey’s health is of the utmost importance to me. Seriously, that dog has gone to the Dr. more times in the last 2 years than I have (Ok, maybe I could take better care of me too, but, I digress). I’ve even made an agreement with my ‘rents that should my untimely death occur before theirs, they’d take in their granddog (See, I told you I’m neurotic).  So after the careful monitoring (obsession) of my dog, I noticed that her breathing seemed to be quick and rapid.


I should preface this by saying Abbey loathes the vet. It’s so odd because she likes the Veterinarian and the assistants just fine; she just seems to hate the place in its entirety. I suspect that her original owners may have abandoned her in one, as every time we go, she refuses to leave my side as if she thinks I’d leave her. Well, jokes on you Abbey, you’re stuck with me til’ one of us takes the ultimate dirt nap.


(Hates baths but loves water, le sigh)

Anywho, we go to the vet and I’m explaining to the vet assistant (who’s totally hot) about Abbey’s breathing habits. The more I go on to describe what I’m seeing, the bigger the look of incredulity creeps on to his face. He then teases me that it sounds like what I’m describing is how dogs should normally breathe and that it’s likely that she’s panting due to the fact that I’m staring intently at her. Apparently she likes me a lot. Well, the feeling is mutual. Nevertheless, he still has the Dr. follow up just in case there is something to it.


(Post-vet nap)

4 pee accidents and one fecal test later (it’s a terribly intrusive process, i feel for dogs everywhere), the Vet checks out Abbey’s breathing. I begin to tell my “version” later, all the while realizing that I have become my worst nightmare: a “helicopter parent”. “Shit”, I thought to myself. How did this happen? Am I to live out my adult days as a rule-abiding, PTA president mom, who is up her children’s asses 24/7?! Ugh, the future of that is uncertain, fortunately for me, Abbey doesn’t seem to mind the extra attention. Oh well, at least she doesn’t think I’m crazy. As for my future children, I’m sure I’ll be giving them a run for their money when the time comes. 😉


via- Someecards


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