The Wrangler took Dash to the vet's office early this morning for a quick blood draw. Our little scruffy pet is getting fixed on Friday, and the vet recommended a pre-operative blood panel. "Good luck," I said, doubtfully, as the Wrangler headed out of the house with Dash tucked under his arm. Dash was eyeing us with suspicion, and I just had a feeling.
A half hour later the Wrangler returned. "It didn't work out," he announced flatly. Looking smug, Dash casually strolled past us to join Fenway on the patio. As the story goes, three vet techs unsuccessfully attempted to restrain the squirmy monster for a few seconds to obtain a blood sample. Not only was he wiggling like crazy, he screamed like a banshee each time a vet tech so much as grazed his fur with the needle. The vet techs finally gave up.
Good thing Dash's blood test was only optional. I guess his is a small victory in light of what's in store for him on Friday, so we'll let him bask in his triumph today.
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