My Bad Trip at The Unsafe Injection Site

Honestly, T.B. is twisted! Maybe she thinks she's in charge of the Canine version of Guantanamo.

She took me to my Vet today on the premise that I might have a rotten tooth. In fact, she obviously just wanted to show me what hideous narcotics and various tortures are at her disposal in relation to my death. The tranquilizer, given with a stab of a needle in my right flank by a very pretty and smiley young technician, was just the start.

Relax? No. PANIC. Like a really bad peyote trip kind of panic. Anxiety. Hyperventilation, I couldn't feel my back legs, still can't four hours after the dose. Paralyze me, make my skin hurt, incite paranoia, disconnect my senses with pharmaceuticals that have me hallucinating and fidgeting like a junkie coming down, and this is called dental care???? Then, T.B. asks me to count the number of fingers she's holding up? Or was that the peace sign she was signing my near-death certificate with?

Sure, she feels bad about it now and thinks dosing me with arnica is going to undo her folly, stop the walls and floor from crawling around me, supress my twitching, and erase my long memory for her misdeeds. Think again!

copyright 2008 Christine Saulnier, Mingusandthebitch