A visit to the vet, and some startling news

Rosie was not happy when Doug and I left with Angus this morning. I wish there had been some way to explain to her that she definitely would not have wanted to go where we were going--the dreaded VETERINARIAN VISIT.

The good news is, Angus is healthy and robust. Nothing wrong with that dog. He is the most relaxed puppy we've ever had, and even when the vet was listening to his heart and peering in his ears and examining his feet, Angus just lolled there like a happy drunk. I'd be worried about his lethargy except that he also runs and plays just fine; he's just extremely mellow.

But he's big. He weighed 13.5 pounds today--up a pound and a half from last Saturday, when we adopted him. And he's allegedly not quite 9 weeks old. Something is not right.

I handed over the scant paperwork from the rescue group, which listed Angus' birthday as Nov. 7, and I said, "That would make him almost nine weeks old, but he's way bigger than Rosie was at nine weeks. Rosie wasn't 13.5 pounds until she was 11 weeks old. I think that birthday must be wrong."

And Dr J just sort of gave me a sideways glance and peeked in at Angus's needle-sharp baby teeth, and felt around at his not-yet-dropped testicles, and then he said, "Sorry to tell you this, but he looks like an eight-week-old puppy to me."

A very big eight-week-old puppy.

The rescue people told me his mother was 40 pounds. They said they figured Angus would be 40-50 pounds.

And Dr. J laughed and said, "This is not going to be a 50 pound dog."  More like--70. Or 75.

Ai yi yi.

 Just my luck that the first dog I get who truly wants to be a lap dog, the first dog I get who wants nothing more than to lie in my arms and give me smooches and fall asleep, is going to weigh almost as much as I do.