‘Fraidy Feet

“He's still alive. They hit him with five shots and he's still alive!”

- Sollozzo, after attempted murder of Don Vito Corleone

Vito needed to go to the vet for his shots, and I needed to consider the best way to get him there. I could lay him on my lap as I drove, but I worried a runaway Toyota would crash into us from behind, and that Vito would make a lousy air bag. So I found a box in the garage and set Vito inside.

From the screaming, you would have thought he was sentenced to a life of solitary confinement, and that box was his jail cell.

We were greeted full force at the door of the vet by a toddler named Toliver. This youngster wore a pair of black snow boots that threatened Vito. The more Vito recoiled from Toliver’s clodhoppers, the more Toliver pursued the “funny puppy.” While this happened, Toliver’s mother looked at wall photos of puppies and kitties, paper animals safe from Toliver.

While Vito hid behind my legs from Toliver, a woman popped out of nowhere. She asked if she could take Vito’s picture because her son wanted a Husky. I said sure. She knelt on the floor and stuck her cell phone in Vito’s face, which made him lunge backwards, right on top of Toliver’s boots.

As I removed the whimpering Vito from Toliver’s feet, the photo-taking woman vanished. We were called to the front desk to deliver Vito’s morning stool sample and measure his weight. He weighed eight pounds, four ounces, the equivalent of one of Toliver’s boots.

The veterinarian looked just like my 17-year-old nephew Connor, so I liked him immediately. The doctor said Vito had roundworms, and I didn’t care for the guy as much. He said put medicine on Vito’s food for three days straight. The stool that followed the medicine may contain some worms, he said. By now, I was peeved at this young man, and I wanted to call Toliver in from the waiting room so he could put his boots to good use and give Dr. WormNews a swift kick.

Other than the larvae that had taken up residence inside him, Vito was fit. It was time for his five shots, to protect him from doggie diseases. He also needed his claws snipped. Plus, he was to receive a microchip inserted between his shoulders. The microchip will help us locate him if he gets lost or runs away. The needle to inject the rice-sized chip was quite large, said the doctor. Did I want to see, or would it be okay if they took him in the back to insert the computer chip? They could also give him his shots and cut his nails back there. The pending vision of Vito’s wormy poops was enough for me, so I asked that he be taken away.

Judging from the screams, the room where they took him must have also served as the Island of Lost Toddler Boots.

When the vet’s assistant brought him back and laid him in my arms, Vito looked completely out of it.

“The microchip needle must have hurt,” I said. “He cried so hard.”

“He didn’t make a sound when we inserted the chip,” she said. “All that fuss was when he got his nails clipped.”

Thanks, Toliver. Now Vito is scared of his own feet.