So The Lovely Rhonda was compelled to take two of the household pets to the local veterinary office yesterday for routine maintenance. Hilarity ensued.
The dog is generally not so difficult to take to the vet. He has Friendliness Issues. He loves to Go Places. Put a leash on him and he’ll go to Hell for you.
While he was there, the vet “expressed his anal glands.” One assumes Otto’s glands, not the vet’s, but it’s none of my business what they do behind closed doors.
And he got a couple of shots, and that was it. Easy peasy.
Not so much for the cat!
I was at work, so you can imagine how delightful it was to receive the following text message:
“Ew. Pa Pa pooped in the carrier. Ew ew ew!”
And a moment later: “And peed! Ew!”
Grandpa was just there for a rabies shot, so it was quick, and by the time they were done the befouled carrier had been cleaned and disinfected.
“So there’s this guy there, in khaki scrubs, and apparently that’s his sole purpose at the clinic is to hose out pet carriers. He just whisked it off and it came back clean. And they swap your towel out for a clean one!”
And they say customer service is dead.
I was thinking about what a trip to the vet is like for a cat. They stuff you headfirst into a box and drive you around. This terrifies you so much that you crap yourself. Then a total stranger manhandles you and examines your most personal private regions and doesn’t even buy you dinner or ply you with alcohol. Then they jab you with needles. And at the end? They stuff you back in the box. Good times!
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