I’m not sure why going to the vet has to be so funny. I just know that often it is.
The veterinarian where I take our hooligan animals is usually crowded, with at least 8 or 10 pet owners and their various dogs and cats in tow. We’re all a friendly bunch and we get to talking. I always find it sweet that each owner has painstakingly chosen a name for their furry friend, and then tacked on their own last name.
“Is Muffy Wilson here?”
“We’re ready for Puddles Amherst.”
I picture people looking at their newly acquired rescue cat or pound pup, and deciding that they look just like a Sprinkles. Or Bambi. Or Nacho.
But this isn’t the funny part. This happens when you get a noisy room full of pet owners chatting away, and a vet technician comes through the door and shouts, “Who’s eating dog feces?”
At which point you have never heard such silence. Not one person so much as breathed in any noticeable way. Even the animals were quiet, as if they could understand the question and no way were they going to admit to that.
All of our eyes looked like fried eggs, just staring ahead and hoping not to garner any attention. I, for one, was terrified that someone would raise their hand and then the rest of us would all throw up. But maybe that’s just me.
I promise my books will have no ill effects upon you. In fact, you can read them at the vet’s while you’re waiting for Fido. Or whomever.