Charlie and I planned to do what we always did when he came to town. We’d go get a Fat Sal’s actual-submarine-sized-sandwich, have a few drinks, and play Grand Theft Auto V until Cristina got off work. Then, we’d all watch some delectably trashy television, something like Love Island or Fox News. It was a beautiful day of regression, one that was nearly ruined by the dog.
In the days before our departure, our beloved Lox, a 77-year-old pandemic Shih-Tzu, developed an eye condition we’d never seen before. Both eyes had swollen pink. They produced mounds of green mucus at alarming rates. Unable to be seen by our vet on Friday, we were crushed to learn their offices would close on Saturday. I would have to take him to the Veterinary Centers of America.
I walked into the VCA looking for a pet hospital. Instead, they took me to the cleaners.
Three hours, two unnecessary tests (even if there were tumors behind his eyeballs, did they really think we were prepared to do something about it?) and one insultingly small bottle of doggy Vasoline later (I’m assuming the stuff was made with pure silver and gold) - Lox had his medicine, Cristina had her re-assurance, and I had to sell my left foot to a pawn shark.
Seeing that I was clearly upset by the unforeseen small fortune spent the day before leaving the country for three weeks, brother graciously paid for my sandwich. We spent the rest of the afternoon sticking to our original plan of crime without punishment. It was a glorious Saturday of nothingness and laughter.