The Vet

So we finally got up from the sofa and took Iggy to the vet.

First, we had to locate a vet. We stole Sis'.

Next, we had to find his address and phone number. The phone number was easy, the address a bit tricky, but we managed. The answering machine was so kind as to tell us when we could just waltz in and bombard the poor doctor with our troubles.

Lucky for us, the doc is a very level-headed guy.

Yes, Iggy's physically fine. Here, let's vaccinate him. Does he always shiver that much?

Cue our litany on Iggy's phobia. He doesn't want to get picked up. He doesn't like new people. No, he's fine with new places and sounds and smells, it's just people that really, really bother him. Where did we get him?

The doc nodded and concluded we have a puppy that hasn't been socialised well. There's no telling how he'll react to things like vacuum cleaners or showers, but it's pretty certain he wasn't introduced to many strangers or new situations as an eight to twelve week old puppy. It would have been better if he had, but it's not the end of the world. It just means that we have a lot of work to be done.

He'll be fine eventually. He just needs time and, well, stuff. Being taken places. Learning to walk on a leash, which he definitely hasn't been trained to do.

In the mean while, the animal-doctor prescribed treats. Lots and lots of treats. Of many kinds. So far, he likes the ones we gave before. And bifi sausages. And cheese. And whatever the scary dried thing was the vet gave him for not peeing on his table. Turns out, Iggy's a little piggy when he's given the opportunity.

I guess I'll have to start teaching him some commands, so I have an excuse to give him treats. Or go to a doggy school, except there's none in the vicinity. Maybe in a few weeks, when Boyfriend has his license.

And tomorrow, probably, maybe, Iggy's goodie package arrives.