Gah, I had to go to the doctor AGAIN today. I think I've been to physicians more in the last two months than in the previous decade, and I'm not exaggerating. This time, it was for a dog bite.

Sprocket bit me on Sunday, for which I don't blame him a bit. He has a bacterial infection so in addition to his prescription pills, he has to be regularly laundered with a medical shampoo. This consists of wetting him down and spraying said shampoo all over him, and making him sit wet, cold and miserable for at least 10 minutes for the medicine to work. He has a few raw skin places where he's chewed himself, and I'm sure it stings there. So he was mad, and I truly don't blame him. I'd have bitten me too.

Alan wanted me to go to the emergency room, but I protested partly because I didn't want to go to the ER but also, I was afraid they'd have to report it to Animal Control or something, and I refused adamantly to do anything that might get my precious puppy quarantined or...shudder...worse. So I poured rubbing alcohol all over it, soaked it in alcohol afterward and eventually Neosporined and bandaged it. It hurt a lot but I thought this was because it was so deep. He is a Shih-Tzu (#2 or #3 on the most dangerous breeds list, I believe) and only got me with one fang, but he got me good.

Then today, I had to make a terrible phone call. "It pains me a lot, more than you can know, to say this," I said to Alan.

"What is it?" he asked, fearing the worst, both because of what I said and because I normally don't phone him unless something dire is afoot. Mostly I e-mail and sometimes text.

"[heavy sigh] I really hate to say this, but...well, you were right," I admitted. A few minutes previously, I had gone to the bathroom and hence washed my hands, so I got my Band-Aid wet and needed to change it. Upon actually seeing the wound, it was plain that it was infected - badly - and alcohol and Neosporin weren't going to cut it. I mean, it was well and truly gross.

I phoned The Boss. I told him what had happened and asked if he (thinking he'd be more sympathetic than Alan) really truly thought I really truly needed to go to the doctor, or if more rubbing alcohol would do the trick. The traitor sided with Alan and said for me to go immediately, never mind the afternoon's work, and why the heck didn't I go Sunday when it happened?

I explained that I didn't because I feared for my dog, and did he think they'd have to call Animal Control (like doctors have to if they expect child abuse) in which case I still wasn't going, no matter what. The Boss said it would be fine, to just tell them that we were playing, it got a little rough and when he went for his toy, he missed and nailed me. He said that's what both he and his wife had done when they were badly bitten at separate times by two different pet cats. And the story is totally plausible, because at 13 years old (nearly 14 actually) The Sprock doesn't see all that well anymore, so after The Boss assured me that nothing bad would happen to Sprocket, I phoned the doctor and actually went.

I had SHOTS. PLURAL. SHOTS. If you know me personally, you probably know I have needle-phobia. I can't even watch it on television, and it doesn't have to be something vile like an addict shooting up, it can be on a medical show - I can't stand to look. I asked Dr. Desai if she'd do it further back on my shoulder so I couldn't see it, and she agreed. But still - plural shots!

Immediately after the appointment, I telephoned The Boss, outraged. "You didn't say ANYTHING about shots!" I accused. "I had to have antibiotics and a tetanus too because the last time I had one was over ten years ago when YOU took me to Crawford Long! If I had known shots were on the agenda, I wouldn't have done this!"

"Which is why I didn't tell you about it," replied The Boss, placidly. Sigh. I've worked for him too long; he knows me too well.