One of my (adult) volunteer library helpers reported today on the progress of her sick dog. Two weeks ago she was off to take her dog to the vet, and it had all seemed rather grim, but we didn't get the update until she returned to the library this morning.
The dog had been very listless, droopy-eared, moody, and sometimes agitated - and was putting on weight, even though the family had cut down on her doggie treats.
"I told the vet that something about the dog just wasn't right," she said.
Needless to say, the dog gave birth to puppies last Monday.
I mean, the answer seems so obvious in retrospect, but this kind of immaculate conception anecdote turns up so often. Vets must get really sick of it. Surely the guess-what-your-dog-is-pregnant tale rates right up there with taking one's female kitten to be desexed and having the vet point out its healthy set of testicles! Or the case of the pair of guaranteed female guinea pigs, which produce a litter a few months after purchase (and a second litter after the male breaks through the dividing wall of the hutch the morning of the first delivery)!
The more my helper insisted, "I told them that something just wasn't right", the more we all fell about in fits of giggles.
Congratulations, Grandma Carmel!
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A similar thing happened to me.
A fluffy, sweet stray cat of about six or seven months old adopted me, and I promptly named her "Baby Girl".
When my mom took her to the vet to be spayed, the vet said... "Better change that name to Maurice."
After that, I joked that I got "Lola'd" (reference to the song by the Kinks) by a cat.
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