Late last year Pepper the poodle, David the Floridian, and I — a British import moved into a house on the Long Beach Peninsula. We went through the usual process of moving to a new state. Driver’s license, utilities sign up, library membership, finding the grocery stores, getting to know our neighborhood. As yet we had not gone looking for a pet doctor. This lapse was about to be rectified.

It’s Monday morning and I’m sitting at my home office desk. I feel a tap on my knee. My dog Pepper is gazing up, her paw still on my leg. After five years of owning this animal, I have learned poodle speak. Her lowered ears and searching eyes warn me — um, watch, any minute I’ll do something disgusting on the carpet.

Huh? I return to my important task of finding a grooming tool of the caliber suitable for fancy pants poodles.

There’s silence, then I hear a “whoosh.”

Yup, it’s butt-scooting. Dog-centric folks are aware — This Is Not Good. If you’re not fond of dogs, then seeing a butt-scooter in action makes you think it’s a great idea to get a cat.

I’m squeamish, a complete and unashamed coward. I cannot cope with needy creatures. My heartstrings twang and my peripheral vision fades. Before I change into a pumpkin, I pick up the hairy little creature and haul her to David.

We share dog duties. The feeding, appointment booking, and overall spoilsport is my job. David tackles the medical side. He puts drops in her ears, trims her toenails, and gives her a bath. This latest misery is in his bailiwick.

Do your animal husbandry bit, please, she’s scooting. Dumping Pepper into his arms, I try not to overthink and walk back into the living room. I don’t move fast enough. Her bloodcurdling yelp goes straight to my breast violin and plays a tune. Every single thought vanishes from my head, making it hollow.

Only a gentle touch and she screeched. There’s something nasty happening. This, from my husband, who is moving toward his bathroom. He settles her on the vanity top, under the light. I point a flashlight at the poodle’s bottom. I’m not cut out to be a nurse.

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If Pepper is in her booster bucket, it usually means she’s heading somewhere fun. A spot where poodles can play. She tells us how happy she is by singing. Joyful birdlike noises. She has a sweet giggle and an ear-busting yowl when things get exciting. During puppyhood, she warbled “Mama.” True story, as corroborated by David.

Her skin is pale peach, and her hair is black. He brushes the fluff away and an alien bursts into view. It’s terrifying. Our girl quivers, her toenails scratching on the embossed surface. Indignation, fear or pain, a mixture. A rational apprehension. Our reaction couldn’t have inspired confidence. This foreigner looks large, pink, and throbbing.

I’ve never had a reason to Google “anal gland.” Given a choice, I prefer not to involve myself with any subject relating to the anus. The surreal image on the computer screen only convinced me further. Ugh.

Right. Vet, says David. Call Oceanside Animal Clinic and try to remember your name and the name of your dog. Be British, and calm.

Ten minutes later, we pile into the Subaru. The patient is in her backseat basket. David is driving, and I’m huddled next to him. Whimpers from behind as we navigate the road from Surfside to Seaview.

If Pepper is in her booster bucket, it usually means she’s heading somewhere fun. A spot where poodles can play. She tells us how happy she is by singing. Joyful birdlike noises. She has a sweet giggle and an ear-busting yowl when things get exciting. During puppyhood, she warbled “Mama.” True story, as corroborated by David.

The sound from the back seat was not the usual anticipatory opera.

After what feels like 50 years, we pull up to the clinic. To our relief, there’s a parking space. I let them know we’ve arrived while David unlatches his girl from her seat. Gads, we need to fill in forms.

The call comes and off we go, carrying our injured animal into an examination room. Kassidy fills in the details on the computer. Do you mind if we shave her hair? What is her weight? I watch the technician’s face and want her to make everything right for my precious pet.

A man as tall as my husband enters the room and whisks away our dog. We draggle back to the chairs in the main reception area. Through the noise machine filling my hollowed-out head, I can hear her.

Too much. I need a breath of fresh air; I informed the women at the desk, pacing right past them and through the door, muttering to myself.

When I return to the reception area David is reading something on his phone and looks up as I approach him. The tall vet appears with envelopes, pills, and a sweet smile. The technician carries the naked-bottomed canine and puts her in front of us on the floor. Pepper is sore but fine, the vet explains.

I could give you a blow-by-blow account of what happens when an anal gland ruptures, or even what an anal gland might be. I could, but I won’t. You may recall I steer clear of anything anus related. Google it.

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Pepper languished about like a Victorian lady with the vapors.

We put her in a diaper. We had some pads left over from her first heat. They’re exactly like disposable nappies for babies, except there’s a hole for the tail. We gave up putting the “collar of shame” on her. She wrangled out of it.

Pepper languished about like a Victorian lady with the vapors. Then the medicine kicked in. Twice a day, she ate her pills, which were concealed in a peanut butter coating.

The story has a happy ending. Of course, I wouldn’t be writing it if things had turned out another way. She’s back to prancing around, chasing balls, and tricking Daddy into giving her treats.

We put a monthly reminder in the calendar to “Squeeze anal glands.”

This piece is to thank the kind staff at Oceanside Animal Clinic in Seaview. Dr. Clark Wilson (the lovely tall vet) and Kassidy, who taught my husband how to deal with Pepper’s behind.