“I have to get married,” I told Veronica and Tate on my couch.
“What? Who? When??”
“Doesn’t matter,” I told them. “I have been utterly defeated as a single person. I’ve bought a house. I’ve planted things. I’ve repaired things. I’ve moved heavy things. I’ve changed careers. I’ve supported myself. I’ve traveled solo in Cairo. But this. This is too much. I raise the white flag.”
“Because?” they said.
“Ear drops,” I told them. “It’s just outside my ability. It’s so far outside my ability that it is comical. It is outside the realm of possibility, for me to manage the ear drops for the dog. I’ve never encountered anything so hopeless. I need at least one more person around for things like this. Probably two more, really. Maybe even three.”
In the battle of Fletch vs. the ear drops, the score is Katherine covered in shrapnel. I hate it when I get shrapnel all over me from battles I didn’t start. It’s like firing on Clara Barton. CLARA BARTON. I do not have the resources to deal with this during Layoff Week. I’ve tried everything in my limited arsenal, and I’ve asked everyone with dogs for suggestions, and nothing worked. After yesterday’s busted lip I realized that I was out of my depth. I hoped that in a week of trying, I’d gotten drops in there successfully more than once, but I really wasn’t sure. It got harder every time I tried.
Part of the problem is that he’s so damn strong, for someone who’s only 39 pounds. But most of the problem is that he’s so damn smart. That’s probably my fault. I mean, I was never that worried about his SAT scores, but I alternate making him watch PBS and the Spanish channel when I’m out, unless he’s asked for roots music. Which he does a lot. He’s obviously getting an education from somewhere other than the back episodes of Nashville we’ve been watching all weekend. (Can you believe Rayna showed up in a fedora? Her stylist should be fired, like yesterday. ‘Course it was in an episode about risky, desperate behavior. So maybe she knew what she was doing.)
At any rate, he’s smart enough to know where the ear drops are at all times, whether or not he can see them. It’s written all over me. I’m a bad, bad, bad liar, which is one of the many reasons I never tell lies, and he is a ninja mindreader.
This morning the vet loved all over him, and also diagnosed him with Drama Queen. Not Awesome. I have plenty of Drama Queens. I am full up on Drama Queens, just at present. I love him anyway. It took two of them to get the drops in, and it was a battle involving a lot of treats. She said he was spectacularly difficult at drops, changed prescriptions, and gave me anti-anxiety meds for eardrop time. For the dog, but don’t think I wasn’t tempted.
I was worried about whether the meds would make him all trippy and sleepy, or whether he would be the Dawg yelling I AM A GOLDEN GOD! from the rooftop at the crowd below. It’s neither. No effect whatsoever, and thus, no drops whatsoever, and thus, we will be going to the vet every day for the next ten days.
Good thing I’m about to have plenty of free time.