Another day, another vet

I’m now on the books of three vets: my local, the Christchurch branch of Ashburton Jay’s local and, as of today, another one, which is open on Sundays and has excellent AI practitioners.

A crook in her tail and a glint in her eye this morning indicated Millie was presenting, which, combined with Friday’s progesterone reading suggested that we needed to get the deed done at least once before the statutory holidays.

(Why, you may ask, when street dogs do it in the road, do my pedigree crew need such veterinary assistance? The answer seems to be something to do with a loss of the crazy spectrum of the sex drive in short-legged breeds, and the rather more prosaic fact that Arthur is content with, erm, a different range of activities from actual mating, when presented with a bitch in season.)

All went well in the new room with its wide spaces, non-slip mats, vaccum pumps, super-long pipettes and the experienced hands of the vet, who talked of advances in extraction, storage and insemination technologies that have eased the load of the soothsayer in the realm of planned dog breeding.

I also got to see under the microscope a selection of what harvestmother named “Arthurettes”: sperm of good volume and extreme motility that partied, in all directions, like ’twas 1999.

A happy new year to you and all your household and animals.