From the "No good deed goes unpunished" department:
Yesterday I spayed a dog. I was led to believe it belonged to someone that I know and it weighed about "20 pounds".
But when I got the dog, I found out it did not belong to this person at all but her son. And it weighed more like 50 pounds. (This is not the actual dog.)
Great. Just how I like to spend my precious free time, doing favors for perfect strangers. It wasn't the dog's fault. She was very sweet and her spay was easy. When we dropped the dog off later that evening the owner was there to meet us in my office parking lot. (I thought it best not to let him know where we live.)
He was driving an old Mustang with only primer on it.
He had a dull, far-away look on his face as he listened to my instructions on how to care for the dog after her surgery.
I picked up the dog to put her into the kennel in the back seat. Her owner did not offer to help but stood by idly, mouth breathing.
I must have lifted incorrectly because today my back is killing me.
It wouldn't have been so bad if he had said, "Thank you".
Instead, he said, "'Preciate it" and drove off in his turd wagon.
I went home to check the tattoo on my forehead. I thought it might have faded since the last time but it had not.
Today my back became more and more painful as the day went on.
Thank goodness for muscle relaxants and Aleve.
I may have finally learned my lesson.
Or not.
