Bygone dog days of summer

Ah yes, the dog days of summer. Those lazy afternoons, the inviting dip of the pool, cool of the shade and days folding in and out of each other until one loses track of time.
I loved this summer, but it was zipping by as summers do. I looked at my calendar and realized, summer is nearly over. School starts earlier this year, for my kids at least, Paradise Unified school district (sick bastards) decided that August 11th would give ample time for students to get in enough Xbox hours, swimming and eating their parents out of house and home.
Suddenly I noticed, we had less than 28 days of summer left. I had yet to start my summer to do list:
1. Annual house de-clutter
2. Garage sale of said clutter
3. Finally finding the matches to all those damn socks-makes my Tupperware graveyard look sparse
4. Resurrection of the Tupperware to move on to bigger or recycle places
5. Kids school supply list purchased
6. Family dental visits
7. Family annuals
8. Animal annuals
Already feeling like a failure, I noticed a looming red date marked on my calendar-July 15th-4PM, Lucky dog and Jack the cat to the vet. It was going to be a red-letter day in the Wycoff home, one time at band camp....

Usually, the vet journey is accomplished with less fuss than it was taking my kids to their doctor appointments. Most people can lie to their animals, we are no exception. The fur members of our family at least, fall for our family code phrases such as, “Oops, dropped it,” when we drop a freshly cut vegetable and our intellectually-challenged dog gobbles it up without much thought, except perhaps, after his gobble wondering, Why does steak have an after taste of zucchini?
The operative phrase for going to the vets was, “Let’s get ice cream.” Our dog, Lucky, will bless our house with long spider web streams of saliva upon the mere mention of ice cream. Of course, we lose brownie points from our vet for the number of times, “Let’s get ice cream,” really meant getting ice cream, rocky road to be exact.
We call it creative training.

Today's vet visit would require the same code phrase. The kids enthusiastically belted out the phrase, "Let's get ice cream," and before the words were out, streams of saliva trailed behind our faithful four-legged beast as he lumbered into the back seat of my soccer mom mobile, tongue dangling below his chest, madly wagging his tail. I felt a little ashamed, noting that my car was now the scene of my falsehood crime. Jack, the cat, normally a very docile and congenial cat, darted past the dog, running low and dove, head first into the Hydrangea bush, orange tail whipping madly as he growled and clung to the wispy branches.

Oh Oh. Jack was onto us. Score one for feline brainpower.

While the kids rallied to find a box to capture our reluctant patient, oops, I mean; ice cream compadre, the dog decided to jump from the back seat to the front, simultaneously locking us out of our car while blaring the horn. This really didn’t help put at ease, our somewhat camouflaged feline, who had at that moment decided the roof was a more adequate place to hiss and growl at his would-be captors.

Fifteen minutes later, two harried kids, one wrestled, hissing and yowling cat, four scratches later (one that required stitches), we attempted to reason with our happy wannabe Nascar driver to give up the fight, he wasn’t driving. Ten minutes of locating spare keys, hot dog coaxing and eight gallons of canine drool later; Lucky dog finally relinquished his driving privileges and hopped back into his designated area.

We were now ten minutes late for the “ice cream” appointment. Driving carefully, to avoid the freedom-seeking body slamming cat-in-the-box, we zoomed to the vets. The despairing cry of my children, “The drool, the drool, there’s no escape,” regarding Lucky’s contribution to draught relief sent me into overdrive as I sped down our winding road, trying to outrun gravity. In typical Wycoff fashion, I was covered in fur, blood marks from scratches and now a large, wet, long snail trail of drool, edging its way down my seat, onto my shoulder, threatened to settle into my cleavage. I was going to resemble a modern day tar and feathered prisoner: Coated in drool, blood and fur.

Wisp's of fur flew out the cracked car windows and drool marks clouded every square inch of visibility. To anyone passing us on the road,our car probably resembled an animal control vehicle, complete with Lucky's tongue protruding out the crack of the windows.

Flashing lights and a quick peek in my rear view mirror confirmed that yes; I was getting a speed ticket. Pulling over, I was careful not to roll the window all the way down, explaining to the patient officer our dilemma. Getting off with a warning and lecture on the proper way of safely transporting animals, I felt relieved, though we weren’t out of the woods yet.

Arriving at the vets, the cat finally escaped, popping his head out of the box and getting two talon-fixed paws out ready to strike his next victim. We decided the plan of action was to leave the cat in the car, taking our slobbering, happy dumb dog in first. After a desperate phone call to the Vet, The vet assistants met us in the parking lot, decked out with gloves, and toting a crate, ready for battle.
As my kids escorted our ice-cream bound dog, the vet’s assistant gloved up and helped me with the hissing devil, formally known as Jack the cat. Carefully opening the door, the vets assistant grabbed our feline as I covered, hunkering down behind, praying that #1 the assistant didn't have gas and #2 that I would be able to grab our orange, fabulous flying fur ball.

Finally, Jack was safe in the arms of the vet, the annuals were completed and we reluctantly made our way back to the car or rather, scene of the crime.
Our ride home was considerably less active, our cat growling softly, effects of a small sedative working, while Lucky dog, still reeling with confusion as to why the Vets exam table didn’t taste like ice cream, gave the back seat interior a bath.

Ah summer. The kids and I sit, gorging on rocky road ice cream, Lucky dog continues to lick his bowl clean of ice cream. His aggressive licks tell me that he knows in his pea-brain: If he licks long and hard enough, making an annoying clang of the bowl, more ice cream will somehow magically appear.

And Jack, still angry; has that, weird angry drunk look,sniffs disapprovingly at his bowl of ice cream. His dark cat thoughts are audible with every whip of his tail, "Dog days of summer my arse, next time, I am taking off an arm!"