Parenting and family, served with a shot of vodka
Fair warning: This post is about a women wielding two bags of dog poop at the vet. If that sounds gross to you, feel free to skip this entry.
Today, I took my dog, Lucy, to the vet for her yearly physical and shots.
I expected a pretty routine morning at our quiet, suburban vet office, but it wound up being one of more entertaining vet visits I’ve had in recent years.
Lucy and I are just chillin’ in the waiting area, watching a woman play bird noises on her iPhone for her cat, when a 50-something woman in yoga pants and a turquoise fleece whooshes through the door in a rather dramatic fashion.
Her entrance becomes even more grand when I realize she is gripping two bags of dog poop, and swinging them around merrily, as though she has beautiful new handbag or a basket of freshly picked flowers.
I immediately notice what’s in her hand because A) the poop bags are transparent, and B) they are sailing directly in front of my eyes. Thanks to her buoyant manipulations, I get the rare experience of two feces hang gliders floating wistfully before me in the lobby.
It struck me because I’m usually pretty discrete when I’m carting around my stool samples. I prefer to use black waste bags. That way, you can’t actually see the offensiveness that lies within, which is nice when you’re stuck carrying it around on a two-mile nature hike. Because, ew.
Anyway, swaying her waste to and fro, Poop Lady goes directly to the counter, even though it’s currently occupied by another customer who is paying for services. After all, when you have such an important parcel to deliver, why wait two extra minutes until it’s your turn?
Poop Lady is a big hand-talker, so as she speaks, her crap sacks are spiraling around like ribbon twirler during a gymnastics routine, first gracing the personal space of the receptionist and then the customer, whose service she just usurped.
She explains that the poop needs to be checked for worms — that her dog FiFi just finished medication for worms, but that her other dog, Pierre, eats FiFi’s poop, so she wants to make sure he didn’t pick them up as a result.
I’m simultaneously stifling my laughter over this whole thing, and holding back vomit, realizing that the lawn sausages gliding past my face earlier were potentially infested with tiny parasites.
It was right about that time Lucy got called back for her exam, so I regrettably didn’t get to see how the rest of this played out.
But to be fair, I think I saw the best of it.
If there were an Olympic event for the adept twirling of pet waste, Poop Lady would have the entire podium to herself.