Wilbur goes to the vet

     On Tuesday we had to take Wilbur to the vet.  He had been eating copious quantities of grass, so much so that we had to make him walk in the middle of the street on his walks to keep him from other people's lawns.  The grass made him barf, in the yard, in the garage, in our bedroom.  (He ate some of the barf in the garage before I was able to clean it up.  I was extremely grossed out, but also somehow grateful.)
     When we arrived at the vet's, Wilbur bailed out of the car before I could stop him.  I caught him and put his leash on, then stood on the end of the leash while I finagled Clara out of her car seat.  She immediately bucked and thrashed because she wanted to walk, and she wanted to hold Wilbur's leash.
     "You can walk, but you have to hold my hand.  We hold hands in the parking lot, no questions asked," I said.
     "Yes," she agreed.  I threaded the end of Wilbur's leash through my arm, put Clara down and firmly clutched her hand.
     "No, no, no!  Me 'Bur, me hold!" she yelled, melting to the ground. I bent to get her. My shoulder bag, pregnant with wet wipes, granola bars, wallet, cell phone and a few library books, swung down off my shoulder and hit me in the side of the head.  I said a few choice words.
    Inside the vet's examining room, Clara went on an explore.  She found a drawer filled with syringes.  She pulled brochures about puppies off a brochure rack.  She pretended to leaf through Oprah magazine.  She rifled through my bag and found a miniature box of raisins and a banana.  She offered the banana to the veterinary technician.
    The vet came in and glanced at Clara warily.
    I had to hug Wilbur and say things like, "Are you Mama's good boy?  Yes, you're Mama's good boy!" to keep him from flipping out while they shone lights into his ears and snout.
    They wanted to weigh him.
    "41.9," said the technician.
    "Wow!" the vet replied in surprise. "I would have put him in the thirties."
    "He's muscular," I said, surprised at the hissy note of defensiveness in my voice.
    "W-e-e-e-ellll," the vet said, shrugging her shoulders with a sheepish grin. "I'm gonna say he's overweight.  He's a little fleshy in the chest-y.  I mean, do we need a man bra here ha-ha?"
     The vet said Wilbur was probably eating grass because he thinks it's delicious.  We just need to keep him from doing it.  I guess that means we need to xeriscape our yard.  Maybe we can also blindfold him and wrap his snout in Saran Wrap when we go for our walks.