Tomorrow Rhett Butler has his “one year” adoption check up. He will be poked and prodded and weighed and he will get his rabies and bordetella shots, along with an all-in-one that should gaurd him against a litany of maladies including distemper and parvovirus. Responsible dog owners, FTW! We will now tell people who ask “how old is your puppy?” that he is six- six years not six months- and I think next weekend, on his actual adoption day, he is going to get a mini-puppy cake made from peanut butter and unicorn horns. Yaaay Rhett Butler.
B and I have also discussed at great length our decision to put Rhett Butler back on Prozac this week. We had weaned him off of it and I know, I know, our little yuppy puppy on human anti-depressants is so very comical, but while his ThunderShirt does wonders for his fear of storms (and the loud rumbles they produce) it doesn’t help against his agitation, which manifests itself with chewing his back legs to bits, aggression with any animal-based treat (such as a rawhide) and general grumpiness. When he takes just 5 mg of Prozac a day he’s happy to leave a rawhide alone (and doesn’t mind anyone coming near him while he enjoys it), he doesn’t snap at anyone who interrupts his precious nap time and he stops chewing his legs to hairless stubs. Yes, he is going back on Prozac, which means once a month I’ll head down to Walgreens to fill the prescription. Our local Walgreens is especially urban and there is always at least one strung out woman arguing with the pharmacist about their refusal to sell her any more Sudafed. I always love the excuses that follow, as the individual grows more and more desperate (waiting meth labs must run on very strict time tables) and finally security escorts them out.
Anyway, I sit there waiting and a litany of people fill their prescription papers out until finally, as the waiting area grows crowded, a pharmacist will come forward and yell out:
This is my cue to drop my head and shuffle forward gripping my debit card and Mr. Butler’s prescriptions savings card (that I paid for and which makes the cost of his prescription much more manageable becuase he isn’t Medicare eligible). Of course someone always gets in my way as I head up to the counter, so the pharmacist always gets the opportunity to yell it out again:
I said, RHETT BUTLER? PRESCRIPTION PICK UP?
At this point of course I’m summarily embarrassed (WHY DID I NAME MY DOG AFTER A LITERARY SOUTHERN SCALLYWAG, B WAS RIGHT, OTIS WAS A NICE NAME) and shoving my cards across the counter while whispering through clenched teeth,
Rhett Butler is mine, thanks.
The pharmacist looks me up and down with a mixture of pity and scorn, and as I grab, again and again for the bag, she always takes a step back. By this point people are staring, somehow this is more amusing than the meth lab lady, which is odd considering I’m wearing matching shoes and paying with legal tender and not a wad of Monopoly money, but again. People who name their dog Rhett Butler cannot be choosy.
I’m sorry ma’am but you’ll need to review our suicide prevention literature.
This is where my eyes bulge out of my head.
Right, that prescription was written by a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. It is for my dog.
This is where the pharmacist gets a sick, twisted grin. They live for the yuppy puppy prescription fillers.
Yes, well. Protocol and all, you are filling an anti-depressant. Now if you could review the following 12 signs of suicide and severe depression and just initial here by each of them……
I’m beet red and sweaty by now, wishing I’d taken my coat off before coming inside and wondering why pharmacy pick up is always so far from the front of the store, you would think they’d want the germy people to come and go as quickly as possible. I hurriedly initial each sign and symptom – luckily Rhett Butler has been eating like a champion and I haven’t found any missing prescription bottles that formerly contained anything lethal in large doses – and I give the pharmacist a hairy eyeball. Really now, what else?
At this point I’ve paid, and tucked away my cards and the crinkly paper RX-bag in my tote bag, and I try to back away slowly, embarassed but wondering if B would notice if I took a quick pitstop in the beauty aisle for yet another scrub or potion for the shower. This is when the pharmacist always takes the parting shot, over the bow so to speak, and yells out something akin to Hope Rhett Butler’s depression gets better! Oh and don’t forget this pamphlet on suicide signs! as she shoves a Pepto-pink flyer into my hand. It always contains a clip-art image of sad, sad person and a happy person, as if to remind you that these are your emotional choices in life, and if you pick the sad face, well then, you’d best keep up your appetite and not make threatening statements.
Anyway, I’ve digressed. Happy Happy One Year Adoption Anniversary You Mutt You! May you, and your Prozac, live happily ever after.