Crofty Takes the P*ss

Our dog is old. He remains small, cute and loveable, but is in equal measures smelly and increasingly infirm. The vet thinks he might have Cushings disease which, dissapointingly, is nothing to do with him turning into a vampire. To start the process of confirming the diagnosis he needs a urine test - our excellent vet Ian won't do a blood test until he has ruled out some of the cheaper-to-discover other things; this is one of the things I like about our vet, he won't rip you off.

On the way out of the surgery Ian hands me a small vial and cheerily says, "Just drop it off at the surgery when you've got the sample." That is all he says. He doesn't offer handy suggestions on 'piss gathering in dogs whose little todger is barely four inches from the floor.'

So, attempt number one. First thing Saturday morning I open the patio doors. Max, always eager for that blissful morning release we all enjoy, approaches the pot containing Clematis Nelly Moser. As he cocks his leg I am there ready and poised with a plastic breakfast bowl; but Max is too good for me. As I dive beneath him with the bowl he looks back startled (sorry I forgot to mention he is deaf as a post too). He stops peeing and trots on giving me a look of bafflement. There then starts a game of 'Dad chasing Max armed with a plastic breakfast bowl' around the patio - only I tire of the game fairly rapidly saying "Bollocks to it then". Of course as soon as I have uttered the fateful words, Max releases a gusing flow that must have lasted about thirty seconds, all of the time eyeing me and the bowl with suspicion.

Still, I have a plan: Max always pees on plastic carrier bags whenever he sees one on our walk. He also has a sense of humour and pees on anything placed temporarily outside to be returned indoors later - meaning I must wash it thoroughly. He particularly likes to pee on houseplants put outside for watering.

Here is the plan: I stand a house plant on a carrier bag so the pee will run onto the bag and I can tip it in the vial. Sure enough he approaches the plant and cocks his leg peeing beautifully up the side of the pot. The piss myseriously seeps away into some sort of pissy black hole - it is nowhere to be seen, let alone poured.

I sulk and wonder whether this is the sort of amusing anecdote that vets talk about, "Do you know what I told one of our clients today...next time I'm going to tell him to tape a bag over it, that'll be worth a laugh..."

So, Saturday afternoon Mrs C and I adopt a cooperative approach. He always behaves for his mum; so Mrs C takes him on the lead to a nearby park; we take him in the car because he doesn't walk far now. She sets off walking, I lurk behind, stalking with the plastic dish. He approaches a post, lifts his little leggy and releases a stream which I catch in the plastic bowl succesfully.

We congratulate ourselves for the succesful piss collection and then look up to see anxious parents guiding their tots away from the playground apperatus nearest the fence where we were gloating over our specimin.

Anyway, by that time the vet was shut so we proudly stored our little piss-pot in the fridge next to the skimmed milk...where you could hardly tell the difference (that little aside was for anyone on a diet, like me).

So now we wait for Ian the Vet's call for the next stage.