By Tracy Beckerman
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Our dog doesn’t like to ride in cars. At first I thought it was a commentary on my driving, but soon I realized that he didn’t like to ride in any car, with any driver.
“What dog doesn’t like to stick his head out the window of a moving car, tongue hanging, tail wagging, without a doggone care in the world?” I wondered aloud.
Monty raised a paw.
“That’s very un-doglike of you,” I told him.
We had hoped that at some point his natural instincts would kick in and he would remember how to dog, but eventually we had to give up the dream and realize that when it came to riding in cars, our dog was a scaredy cat. However, we didn’t want his car anxiety to keep us from taking him on cool road trips, so I called the vet for a mild sedative to take the edge off. Oh, and I got a prescription for the dog, too.
“I’m picking up a prescription for my dog,” I told the employee behind the pharmacy desk at my local drug store.
“Patient’s name?” he asked.
He typed the name into the computer. “Your son is not in the system,” he said.
“He’s not my son. He’s my dog,” I responded.
“Well, we’ll have to put him into the system before we can fill the prescription,” he said authoritatively. It didn’t make sense to me since I wasn’t going through insurance and also because, you know, it was for a dog, but I thought if it made the process go faster, I didn’t really care.
“OK,” I agreed.
“Male or female?” he inquired.
“Date of birth?” he wondered
“I don’t know,” I responded truthfully. “I mean, I know the month and year, but not the actual day.”
He looked up from the computer. “You don’t know your son’s birthdate?”
“He’s not my son. He’s my dog,” I explained for the third time.
“Known allergies?” He continued.
“Um, he’s allergic to chicken and lamb.”
“What reaction does he have?”
“The hair on his tail falls out.” I said.
He looked up from the computer again.
“Your son has a tail?”
“He’s. A. DOG,” I repeated.
“Your son is a dog?”
I sighed. “Yes. He’s a big furry dog that drinks out of the toilet and licks himself in inappropriate places. But I love him anyway because he’s mine.”
The drug store employee looked up from his computer and shrugged. “OK, we’re all set. Your son’s prescription will be ready for pickup in half an hour. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, I’d like a box of jerky treats.”
“Sure,” he said. “Is that for your dog?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s for my son.”
Follow Tracy on Twitter at @TracyinSuburbia.
Lost in Suburbia: A ruff trip to the drugstore
By Tracy Beckerman