Ikea Sunday

Yesterday Mr. Jingles was rushed to the hospital.

If you don't know, Mr. Jingles is the pen name of Wendell the pest, the boston terrier who thinks he is a border collie.

Yesterday was Sunday and the vet isn't open on Sunday. Around here there are various emergency clinics which shall remain nameless which charge you an arm and a leg before you come in the door if you show up on Sunday. Then after you have reached your credit limit they usually send you to Seattle anyway.

So the farmer decided to cut out the middle man and headed right to Seattle. Renton, to be precise.

Mr. Jingles was shivering and whimpering, the farmer feared he had swallowed a deer bone and it was lodged inside. I don't know why, but the farmer always makes up a full and complete scenario of doom in situations like this. The farmer never thinks, "oh dear, something is wrong with Mr. Jingles, I wonder what."

Instead the farmer thinks that an eagle or possibly a hawk -- one of those redtails that lives out in the madronas at the fringe of the meadow -- probably picked up a deer bone from that poor deer that was hit by the car down the road and the bone was too heavy , probably it was a femur, and the eagle (or the hawk) dropped it over the pasture and Mr. Jingles picked it up and took it into the garden and buried it in the compost pile while the farmer wasn't looking and then somehow managed to gnaw off a big sharp chunk of it and now it is lodged inside and that is why Mr. Jingles is twisted to the side and walking in a hunched fashion and peering at the farmer with deep devotion as he does in times of impending financial catastrophe.

Off they went in the big truck with Mr. Jingles perched on a cushion and wrapped in a blanket, shivering and whimpering and peering devotedly, putting his full trust in the farmer. "I trust you to do what is right," his expression said, "and not what is financially expedient. And please remember that you have two credit cards, not just one."

It was a complex expression.

At the vet hospital Mr. Jingles looked much improved and even tried to hop up on a chair in the waiting room. "Well, that often happens," said the receptionist politely. "It's the adrenaline."

In the exam room the vet tech took Wendell's temperature and it was normal and Wendell tried to jump up and lick the vet tech as the farmer droned on in the background about the possible deer bone and the vet tech nodded politely and the farmer explained that this morning Wendell had just looked terrible and could hardly walk and look at him now he practically looked normal.

"Well that often happens," the vet tech said politely, "it's the adrenaline. The doctor will be in in a minute."

The veterinarian came in and examined Wendell in a very cheerful and friendly fashion and it was determined that he had a neck injury and he wasn't about to die and in fact he was looking quite chipper. But shouldn't he have an x-ray, the farmer blathered, what with the possible deer bone and so on and the hawks in the meadow and bla bla bla.

"We could do an x-ray," the vet said kindly, "and that is certainly up to you. But I don't think it is necessary, as his belly is not tender and he hasn't been vomiting. He definitely has a sore neck and some pain pills will help a lot. But certainly we could do an x-ray if you like."

What kind of emergency clinic is this? The farmer wondered. They don't even have my credit card number yet.

Mr. Jingles was discharged with some pain pills to the tune of $118, which is about what it costs to park at any of the emergency clinics closer to home, and when the farmer got back outside the farmer noticed that Ikea was right across the street and the farmer perked up dramatically and gave Mr. Jingles half a pain pill inside a vienna sausage and covered him up with his blanket and went shopping, because why not after saving so much money.