Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

The Cayenne hasn’t been the only thing trapped in ‘limp mode’ this week. Pikachu, our ten-year-old terrier cross, started limping on Saturday. At first, we assumed she’d simply stubbed a toe or sprained a paw on a walk, but by Monday she still wasn’t bearing any weight on it at all. It was time to book her in to see the vet.

Karen and I couldn’t even inspect the sore area without risking a sharp nip; it was clearly excruciatingly tender. Missing her daily walks had left Pikachu looking utterly miserable and generally grumpy.

As I carefully lifted her into the Fiat, she gave me that classic, soul-crushing sad look—dogs are master manipulators when it comes to making you feel like a family crisis is entirely your fault. Before setting off, I double-checked that I had a high-limit credit card with me. In my experience, you can’t even cross the threshold of a vet’s waiting room for less than a couple of hundred quid. A genuinely lame terrier? This was going to hit the savings hard.

On the drive to Marlborough, I mentally recalculated our household budget. Plans to get the loft boarded out would likely have to be shelved, and my new table tennis table setup put on hold. All available capital was about to be diverted into Pikachu’s major surgical recovery. I just desperately hoped it wasn’t something even more sinister. She’s a terrier, after all—terriers are supposed to be indestructible, never ill, and definitely never lame.

Inside the surgery, a handful of pet owners sat in tense, worried silence with their unwell animals. I carried Pikachu past them—she was apparently far too lame to walk, though I suspected she was laying it on thick to trick an unsuspecting receptionist into handing over a treat.

Once inside the consulting room, Pikachu stood precariously on three legs upon the stainless-steel table, looking the picture of pathetic misery. She was giving the vet the full “I’m going to require extensive medical intervention and a mountain of chicken to fix this” routine.

Imagine my absolute shock—and instant humiliation—when the vet lifted her poorly paw and calmly announced, “Ah, she’s just got a tick stuck between her pads.”

Yup. Nothing more sinister than a foul, blood-sucking tick that I could have removed myself in thirty seconds using the little plastic twister tool sitting at home in the ‘Dog Maintenance Toolbox’ (a kit that sees the light of day infinitely more often than my DIY tools).

Granted, the vet extracted the common sheep tick (Ixodes ricinus) far more expertly—and swiftly—than I ever could have managed. Pikachu barely even registered it. As I pinned her down, I had braced myself for a bloody fight and a potential trip to A&E for a dog bite. Instead, all those years of rigorous study, clinical training, and veterinary exams culminated in a 30-second procedure. The tick was vanquished, and Pikachu was instantly back on all four paws, trotting around the consulting room as though she’d just miraculously survived open-heart surgery.

I’m convinced the receptionist deliberately raised her voice louder than necessary as I checked out: “Just a tick removal this morning, then!”

The now-packed waiting room turned to stare at my utter incompetence. I offered a sheepish smile, my credit card breathed a massive sigh of relief, and I quietly shuffled out the door—fairly sure I heard one of the waiting cat owners tut and mutter, “A tick! Honestly…”

Here’s hoping the Cayenne’s upcoming diagnosis is quite so painless.