"He's been in the wars, hasn't he?" the receptionist at the Vet's said to the Boss.
"He has," the Boss says grumpily.
"Do you have pet insurance?"
"No. I thought he'd be the healthy one. He's been very expensive to run, as a matter of fact."
Now, that's me he's talking about and I'm the one suffering. It's only money to him but I'm having to put up with pain. You'd reckon he'd be a bit more sympathetic.
See, I was tearing through the bush down by the river, giving fair chase to a hare and clipped a log as I went over it. And it must have been a huge log because I can leap high and long, like a kangaroo, as you probably know.
Naturally I kept going - a tough hound like me doesn't let a nasty injury slow him down or anything - but the Boss says I just made it worse.
He had a look at my bleeding claw and toe when we got back to the house and shook his head.
"You'll just have to put up with it, General," he says.
Just like that. And that was last Tuesday, before the rain came. But the morning walks got a little shorter after that and he was watching me limping while pretending he wasn't really noticing. By Saturday he was feeling guilty enough to run me in to the Vet.
And about time, if you ask me. He told the Vet he thought I might have a splinter in my toe but she shaved around it and told him a claw was dislodged and should probably come out, or it could get infected.
He seemed to think she could do it on the spot and she splashed a bit of "local" on it, whatever that is, gave it a few minutes and took some monstrous clippers to it.
Naturally I howled like I was having my throat cut and she said "He'll need to be sedated."
That was obvious, wasn't it? To me, anyway. You can't put a noble creature like me through excruciating pain like that.
"He's a sook," said the Boss.
A sook! It wasn't him getting half his leg ripped off.
The Vet and I both looked at the Boss like the unkind brute he really is and he finally nodded. Half an hour later I'm under it, the claw gets pulled out and I'm all wrapped up, as you can see, with a plastic bag thing so I can go outside and be a real dog. With a few good drugs to ward off any unnecessary effects.
The Boss drove me home, complaining that it was all the price of a small car. You'd think he'd be saying soothing things like "It'll all be okay soon" or "You're a fine hound, General, and worth every penny" but he said nothing like that.
So I've been whimpering a lot and hobbling in quite an obvious way so as not to cut him any slack but all he says is "Quit whingeing."
He's not very happy with me at the moment and it shows. What a dog has to put up with. Woof!