"It could be a sign of anxiety or boredom," I was told, "He might need to be environmentally enriched."
"Well...right now he's getting environmentally enriched on my fax machine," I snapped.
"Is it on?" the tech asked with concern.
"Oh, it's on all right...and my cat is getting off."
And through it all...delight and, unfortunately, despair, the staff at my veterinarian clinic has been patient, prompt, reassuring, comforting, and occasionally blunt.
Me: Can you please do SOMETHING about this gross growth on Juno's stomach?
Vet (inspecting my ridiculously happy rottweiler who is oblivious to my diabolical plan): What did you have in mind?
Me: Lop it off? Tie a rubberband around it? I think Sydney still has those little ones from when she used to wear braces. How about tying a string around it and slamming the door? (I can't believe I have to pay these people when I'm the one coming up with all the good ideas)
Vet (first murmuring to receptionist to call the Humane Society for a home visit before saying to me): Amy...it's a skin tag. It's completely harmless. Would you want to do an unnecessary procedure for cosmetic purposes?
Me (sighing as Juno grinned happily up at me, her skin tag flopping over at a nauseating angle): I guess not.
Vet to receptionist: Cancel the home visit but let's keep her on the watch list.
It was during our most recent visit that I realized how far my veterinarian clinic was willing to go to treat ALL aspects of pet care; maintaining peak physical conditioning was not enough for my doggie doctors. Oh no.
Chloe, Juno, and I were...as always...warmly greeted. After we played "Guess the weight" as both of my dogs refused to cooperate with the floor scale, the technician quietly asked about our levels of anxiety. "Mine is through the roof," I admitted. He smiled before redirecting me to consider the current stress levels of my dogs. I likened Juno to Spicoli from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Juno was a laid-back, righteous rottweiler. Chlo, on the other hand, was shivering as usual in my arms. "I have just the thing," the technician murmured, ruffling through a box of colorful fabric until he found a swath that highlighted her eyes. "It's been sprayed with an anxiety-reducing pheromone," he said soothingly, tying it around my dachshund's neck while we looked at him skeptically. I glanced at the door. Did I bypass a curtain of beads when I walked in? I sniffed cautiously. Did I detect incense? What next? Doggy yoga? Would Juno soon be placed in downward-facing human?
I was disappointed when we were called to our examination room by a simple, "Can you come this way, please?" rather than a meditative gong. I watched Chlo carefully to see when she would slip into her zen-like trance of tranquility. She raised a quizzical eyebrow in return and readied herself for battle. She was soon swept away to another room. Upon return, Chlo was promptly deposited into my loving arms. "How did she do?" I asked. Did her blissed-out bandanna work? "She was just a little sassy once," I was told. Oh. That's code for "Your dog was a rabid wolverine who required restraints, multiple handlers, and a tranquilizer gun at-the-ready."
So I wasn't sold on the pheromones. Maybe the Mosimans (except Juno) are too sarcastically skeptical for holistic medicine. But I definitely appreciated the effort. Chlo did look pretty cute in her bandanna. It's way too easy to schedule a shot and then just be shown the door. However, just like me, my veterinarian clinic is invested in the health and happiness of my pets. I was going to light some incense when we got home but all I had were birthday candles.
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