The father figure had surgery and was off for eight weeks. During that time, the dog had surgery as well, just to remain in good standing with the family. She had a tumor on her ear, and a large portion of her ear, removed. The father figure handled all the prep work, and actual surgery but returned to work before her post operative visit. Which left me responsible for getting the doggie stitches out. The dog was ready to exit the cone of shame with which she was wreaking havoc on the Christmas tree ornaments. And I was ready to stop seeing my ornaments break. D'Garebear is still an infant, this is my one bye year when it comes to ornament destruction. Or so I has assumed. Never assume.
Of course the father figure made the appointment for late in the afternoon, when Baby and Baba were off at martial arts, something the father figure has insisted his little girls learn, insisted from the moment of their births. My point being, this is all the father figure's fault.
Mac is a responsible young man who is comfortable watching X-Man and Cinco for limited amounts of time. Part of his responsibility is his recognition of his limitations. He has said he doesn't feel ready to watch D'Garebear and I'm quite comfortable with his assessment his abilities. X-Man and Cinco happily sit on the couch and watch movies or play video games while I'm gone, D'Garebear, awesome as he is, is not yet that sort of team player. The point here is that I ended up heading off to the vet with an eighty pound golden retriever and an infant.
The dog was excited to go, but also perplexed that I was driving her somewhere that didn't involve the other small persons. I couldn't put her in the back of the SUV as I typically do as the father figure decided to stash Christmas presents there. I didn't want her in a confined space with D'Garebear, so I helped her lumber in the passenger seat. I walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and discovered the dog sitting in my seat. She had crawled over the center console, smeared her wet muddy feet all over everything in the front of the car and plopped herself in my seat. So I had to push her back her side, spreading the mud even more.
She was clearly aware something was up and wasn't about to endure it alone. So she finagled her head so she could lay on my lap. Which is exactly what you want when it's dark and rainy. But, having endured surgery just a few months earlier, I indulged her. Also, the dog is really good at not understanding English when she chooses not to. So, like another kid. So there I was, parking in the vet parking lot when I realized I had a dog and a baby to wrestle in. The dog was not interested in going anywhere as she realized we weren't at a park or the river. Not sure how she knew we were at the vet, but the dog who didn't understand English could now read the sign. 
I had to make a decision, perhaps not based on the best metrics but based on what I needed to survive. I took D'Garebear, sleeping peacefully in his car seat, out first. covered him and put his on the ground in the parking lot. I then dragged the unwilling literate dog out of the car. And lifted the baby's seat.
The dog sat. And refused to move. I don't know if you've ever tried to drag a limp eighty pound dog with a heavy car seat hanging in the crook of your arm. I don't recommend it. It's hard and annoying. Especially when it's man's best friend refusing to cooperate. I'll spare you the details but Santa wasn't happy with my language.
We reached the door which presented it's own problems. I had to hold the leash with two hands as the dog was still desperately holding to the Newtonian concept that an object at rest remains at rest. With a large unwieldy car seat swinging back and forth, well it was about comical. Although I wasn't laughing. If you thought someone inside would assist, well you would think. I managed to get my foot in the door, quite literally, my knee played a role as well and pushed my way in. The dog continued to sit, knowing she simply had to out wait the closing door. She didn't think I would sacrifice the child carrier in my battle of wills with her. But I was past caring what anyone else thought. Most especially the dog.
Finally entering the clinic, another customer observed "You have your hands full." I gave him my best "nice to meet you Sherlock" look and sat down. The dog followed me sheepishly and laid down. She was freshly wet and muddy due to her antics in the parking lot. The result was a trail of muddy water leading to my chair but I was past caring. We sat catching our breath, well except for D'Garebear who was still sleeping. I had his carrier on the floor so I could rock it with my foot while still grasping the dog's leash with both hands. The dog seemed resigned to her fate.
When they called her name, she perked up and decided she still had some fight in her. Or flight. She opted for hide. Behind the baby carrier. She nosed my foot away and firmly believed she was out of sight hiding behind the car seat. I moved the car seat, she moved. She attempted to push herself behind my legs to add a cloak of invisibility to her attempts. At this point, the tech took her leash. The dog gave me a pathetic look realizing the jig was up and shuffled off.
She pranced out five minutes later, stitch free and greatly relieved. Leaving was quite uneventful, as we all were happy to get ourselves out of there.
So, the dog used a baby as a shield. Because that's our fierce dog. Her bark could shake the walls, but she didn't even have a bite.
