Dear little Daisy has another infection on her back and legs, so Andrea and I took her into the vet on Saturday. The vet wrote us out a prescription since her clinic was out of antibiotics. Filling a prescription for a dog at WalMart was a rather unique experience.
TECH: Does Daisy have insurance?
ME: No (chuckling, thinking what the insurance Nazis at my office would think of me if Daisy
was listed as a dependent)
TECH: What is Daisy's date of birth?
ME: I'm not sure, but I think it's Feb. 19, 2001.
TECH: You don't know your daughter's birthday?
ME: No, she's a dog.
TECH: That's rather rude
ME: No, really, Daisy is a miniature dachshund. Look at the prescription - it's from a vet
At that point, the tech turned the tenth shade of red and laughed so hard I thought she was going to burst a blood vessel. Every question after that was amusing. (Does Daisy have any allergies; has she filled a prescription before, etc.) When I picked up the drugs, she had typed on the pill bottle: DAISY IS A DOG.
Wait, it gets better. I had Daisy's two prescriptions on the counter in front of the pills Michael takes for his arthritis.
MICHAEL: Who the bloody hell cut all my pills in half?
No, he didn't take any.
I take some pleasure in knowing that I don't have to coat Michael's pills with peanut butter and jam them down his throat!
Daisy's medication is now in another spot in the house and her breath smells like Jiffy extra chunky.
Michael? He just has to settle for water with his medication.