Luke the dog is having a rough day.

Starting right about the time I moved to Seattle in 2007, Luke started getting chronic ear infections.  Normally, I just clean out his ears every couple of weeks, and that’s good enough.  (He HATES getting his ears cleaned, by the way.)  But this time, not so much.  One ear is fine, the other is quite seriously infected.

Luke also has really bad skin allergies.  That usually kick in right about this time of year, and plague him all summer.  He gets a bad, itchy rash on his stomach, then he chews on his skin, rips out big chunks of fur.  Then the wounds from ripping out his fur get infected.  This year, he’s got the worst case I’ve ever seen.

Both of these issues re-reared their heads in the last week.  And so Luke the Dog is in a pretty crabby mood at the moment.  So, I scheduled an appointment with a new vet whose office is directly across the street from my office, and I piled Luke into the car this afternoon.  We were going to get the ear infection taken care of, the skin allergies investigated, and while we were erstwhile engaged in the fun, we decided to go ahead with the vaccinations that are three months behind schedule.

It was SO. MUCH. FUN.  Let me tell you.

I walked out of the vet’s office $300 poorer, and with three bottles of pills, a topical spray, ear cleaning solution, an ear-infection ointment, and perhaps the most horrible thing ever invented by mankind (at least in Luke the Dog’s mind) the Cone of Shame

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If I have ever seen my dog look more pathetic, I can’t for the life of me remember it.  Seriously.  I see-saw back and forth between laughing uproariously and feeling bad for him.  But mostly, I’m just laughing uproariously.  Every now and again, he’ll saunter into my studio/office (usually bumping into the doorframe for dramatic effect) and just look at me with these wounded eyes, as though asking how I could torture him so horribly.  At this very moment, he’s leaning against my leg, with his head tucked under the desk and the cone of shame scraping across the bottom of the desk and panting heavily.  He’s not a happy boy.

Hopefully, things will get better shortly.  By Monday I can start giving him his prednisone.  And by then, hopefully he won’t have to wear the cone of shame anymore, because, really.  This is just too pathetic.