A series of unfortunate events

Saturday was just not my day.

When I heard my leash jiggle in the morning, I thought we were going out for bagels, but the car stopped in front of the veterinarian’s office, instead.

I was dragged, as willingly as a lamb to slaughter, into the sterile, tube-lit office reeking of antiseptic, anal fluids, bleach and fear - for my annual well check.

Hissing cats glared at me from pet carriers while their humans filled out paperwork; beady-eyed fish swam around in a glass enclosure, desperately looking for freedom; a fussy, coiffed French poodle, smelling of lavender fields, set me off on a sneezing spree; while a black Labrador strained at his leash and decided I would make a good breakfast.

“Hiya, handsome fella!” said the high-pitched nurse as she hoisted me on to the table. “Can we get a kiss?” she puckered up. Lady, have you smelled your breath today?

After a five-minute examination that included a cold thermometer stuck up my rear end, a distemper shot, a detailed description of my bowel movements, and a peek into my ears and eyes, the vet declared that I have officially begun ageing.

From “fella,” I was quickly demoted to “old man,” as mom swallowed the rising lump in her throat and listened to the vet describe my deteriorating vision, decaying teeth and fat tumors under my shoulders – “All natural signs of ageing; not to worry!” Apparently, I’m 60 in human years, but mom thinks I look as evergreen as Dev Anand. Hmmm…, I’m not sure that’s a compliment.

Back home, sans bagels, the humans left me to lick myself for three hours, while they went to a birthday party and overdosed on cake and candy from the piñata. (And here I thought after working all week, one would politely cancel social invitations that do not involve the entire family and spend a quiet, relaxing weekend at home vegetating on the couch and eating potato chips.)

I also ran into my nemesis later that afternoon. She had draped herself on the garden wall, the very picture of innocence, and stared at me with her cat-green eyes. From time to time, she would uncurl her tail and let it fall over the wall, in the style of a coy Indian heroine who accidentally drops her sari pallu. We stared at each other for the longest time until a spot of dust in my eye made me blink first. The little tease smirked and walked away, leaving me panting in frustration.

Come dinner time, I was fed the same old crap, while mom and dad argued over what kind of pizza to order.
“If we’re going to eat junk anyway, let’s get a veggie pizza,” said mom.
“I don’t like olives,” said dad stubbornly.
“So, pick them out,” suggested mom gently.
“I don’t want to pick them out. Let’s get individual pizzas instead,” said dad.
“Should I just make aloo-gobhi for dinner? It’s healthier,” offered mom.
“Fine,” said dad firmly, “If you don't want pizza, just say so. You have aloo-gobhi, and I’ll order a pizza.”

Given such a pithy exchange, I could tell the evening was going to end badly. And sure enough, the olives versus jalapeños argument mushroomed into a full-blown domestic squabble that had absolutely nothing to do with pizza.

Next time, people, just eat curd rice with pickles!