Tosca
Was adopted from a kill shelter, by a young couple, when he was three months old.
They renamed him, Hunter.
Hunter lived with his new parents for three happy years.
And then his dad went and slept with a tramp.
This caused a shitload of commotion.
Hunter and his mom moved into a second story apartment.
And then after a while, his mom thought, "I can't fucking do this alone. This dog is nuts."
Of course, we heard a different story through a third party. It was put more like, "They got a divorce, and she says it's not fair for her dog to be all cooped up. He needs a place to run."
When Hunter was four years and one month and one day, he found his way to the country.
His mother pulled up in front of our house and opened a hatch back.
It seemed like it was a long time before he climbed out and it took a lot of coaxing on her part.
Hunter's mother and Sven and I shook hands. And then we all went for a walk.
She brought a leash, a dish, and a bag of toys into the kitchen.
"This is his favorite one," she says, pulling out a half eaten face of a pig.
She gently kissed him good by on the snout.
And then he watched her drive away.
Hunter is the third, in a line of three crazy canines, to find this place.
As my sister says, "He is an apartment dog, who moved to the country."
But unlike Eva Gabor, Hunter likes the telephone at the top of the pole, the coffee that pours out mud and Mr. Haney.
He also likes the murky pond, the baby rabbits and the squirrels.
Not to mention the neighbor's murkier pond, the dump and the raccoons.
He could not be any happier, unless one of the varmints that he catches would live, so that he could flip it in the air and play with it forever.
But that rarely happens after a quick snap of a neck.
He has been the wrath of many a poor, furry, family.
A pillager without a conscience.
An asshole.
He runs with the speed of a gazelle.
He barks with the voice of a giant.
And, if a squirrel runs up a tree, he climbs up after it.
Hunter is the king of his domain.
He is one tough guy.
That is, until he gets a hang nail, stubs a toe, or has to go to the doctor.
And Saturday was doctor day.
"Hunter," I said on the way there. "Just try not to be a dick."
It is hard to judge who hates going to his doctor more.
Obviously, if you walk in and you pee all over the tile floor, you are not very happy.
But it is also quite humbling to be on the other end of the leash of a pooch, who just let loose in front of the desk.
So, I was quite pleased when this year, Hunter did not piss all over the waiting room, while trying to pull me out the door.
Things were looking up.
I was also very excited that he wasn't able to slip out of the muzzle they put on him, and rip the bony arm, right off the technician.
"I am just going to draw a little blood," she says, very sweetly to my Hunter Bunter, after already having tricked him into stepping onto a scale that then rose up in the air and turned into an examination table.
I, for one, was well aware of his position, on his position.
Within minutes our tiny, room, was jammed with a fistful of technicians. One to hold each leg. One to hang on to his head. And one to draw his blood.
And me squeezed into a corner.
I give blood all the time.
It's the least I can do, since the Red Cross comes right to our cafeteria, and they hand out cookies and juice after.
So, I know.
You cannot fool me.
It doesn't, even, fucking, hurt.
Especially after the needle is inside.
The only painful part is pretending to read the questions about whether or not you've recently had sex with a male, who had sex with another male who was shooting up drugs, while in Jamaica.
Here's the thing.
If I were to ask Sven that question. He would say, "No, I haven't," no matter what the hell really went on.
All Hunter had to do was stay still.
But when that woman stuck that needle into his vein, you would have thought, by the screams of muzzled pain, that he was giving a breeched birth, to a two headed cow.
His doctor was not able to get a good reading on his heart rate due to the steady rumbling, emerging from within his lower belly and running through his body and out the end of his curled lips, and white fangs, under that flimsy muzzle.
"Well, I see that he has gained almost ten pounds," says his doctor.
"Yes, we both did," I said. "I should quit hanging out with him."
His doctor believes that Hunter's back left leg, may have a torn muscle.
Under the circumstances, it was difficult to examine it very thoroughly.
"Can we try treating the pain first, before jumping into surgery?" I asked.
They poked Hunter with several vaccines, at Guiness Book of Record, speed.
And then, I escorted my cute, little, bastard, out to the car and returned to the counter to learn that he has Anaplasmosis.
"Does that cause brain damage?" I asked.
"No, it is a form of Lymes Disease."
They loaded me up with enough drugs to sell out on the streets, so that I can pay his bill.
What I do not understand is, why does Hunter get a prescription of tranquilizers, to take before his next visit.