The Therapy Sessions

On Visiting The Vet

A sneak peek inside this week’s session between Little Man and his therapist (TP).

TP: So how did it go this week, Little?

LM: Ahh, it was ok, I guess. Didn’t exactly start great though. Had to get in the damn pet carrier (traveling prison cell would be more accurate) to go to the vet.

TP: What was so terrible about it?

LM: Well, first of all, dad always telegraphs his game plan with some over-the-top comment about how we’re going to go outside and have BIG FUN together. The last time I had “big fun” outside was when I was really young and climbed a tree. Dad thought I was stuck up there, so he climbs up too. Thing is, in his pathetic effort to reach me, he loses his balance, falls onto a lower branch, and cracks a rib. He limps into the house to whine to mom and I saunter down off the tree, no prob. That was big fun.

TP: Stay on topic, Little. The trip to the vet.

LM: Right. So anyway, he carries me downstairs mumbling about “big fun” and I can see he’s got the prison cell all set up down there—door open, ready to deposit me inside.  So, of course, I go into high resistance mode so he knows I know what’s up. Then it’s head first into the little sweatbox. I mean, look at me. I’m thirty pounds of mansome being stuffed into a kitty carrier? Please!

TP: OK. So you get to the vet and…

LM: Not so fast. First, we have the ride over. I, of course, immediately go into woe-is-me-whining-mode. He starts babbling back at me about how we’ll only be at the doctor’s for a few minutes, it’s no big deal, and then the clincher…“Maybe your girlfriend will be there.”

TP: Your girlfriend?

LM: Yeah. There’s this one tech there that thinks I’m hot…calls me her stud muffin. She’s pretty cute, I admit, but still.

TP: So was she there?

LM: Dude. Slow down. We’re still on the ride part. You’ll love this. So when my dad’s used up all his conversation points, he turns on the radio. I mean, I love the guy, but it’s ALWAYS talk radio, either sports (Yawn) or one of those hard case conservatives (Boorring).  I’m telling you, doc. The ride over is torture.

TP: OK. So you finally arrive.

LM: Right. And get this. Not only is Miss Stud Muffin not there. Neither is my vet. Turns out the damn guy broke his leg or something and he’s out for a month. Talk about milking an injury! A month? Break your leg, you get a cast and get back to work. I mean, I’m looking at dad, like, what kind of loosey-goosey operation you bringing me to here?

TP: You’re wandering again.

LM: OK. Anyway, the girl behind the desk says they have an open exam room ready for me so we go right in. This, by the way, is S.O.P. because they know I HATE WAITING. Made that clear in one of my first visits. You shoulda been there, doc. This one time I threw the mother of all hissy fits because we had to sit in the waiting room FOR-ever.  I mean, c’mon. I’m sitting out there in a portable prison while a bunch of stupid dogs are bumping around, like “Oh boy, we’re gonna see the doctor.” Dopes. So excitable. And of course, you KNOW they have to come stick their big wet noses against my carrier. Gave a big German Shepherd a heck of a nosebleed one day. He’ll think twice before sticking that big schnoz against my screen door again.

TP: Little man, please.

LM: Anyway, when we finally got into an exam room that day and they let me out, well, let’s just say I made my position clear. From then on, we go right in.

TP: So, why did you have to go to the vet this week?

LM: Ah, just for a nail clipping. No biggie. Like I said, the head man usually does it, but since he was dogging it (excuse the pun) with the broken leg, some little tech girl comes in, along with a young buck techie who I immediately make as the muscle. Normally, I’d have raised a little hell—what with no doc, a green trainee and a bouncer-type—just to establish cred, but, to tell you the truth, I was feeling so darn good, I let it go.

TP: That was very mature on your part, Little. Perhaps we’re making some progress here after all.

LM: Don’t hurt yourself patting your back, doc. I like these little chats of ours, but the reason for my playing nice that day was totally a function of the weigh-in. See, whenever we go to the vet, I get weighed. Mom and dad are beside themselves with guilt for loving me too much, and feeding me that way, as a youngster. Between you and me, they shouldn’t be. I mean, look at me. I’m a hunk o’ hunka burnin’. But anyway, they live and die by how I tip the scales. And that afternoon…I was half a pound down, baby. Dad was so damn happy I just couldn’t spoil the moment for him.

TP: So all-in-all, it wasn’t such a bad start to the week?

LM: Nah, not really. Besides, much as I hate going to the vet, I LOVE coming home. Dad lets me do that dog thing on the ride home. You know, when you stand on the car seat, stick your nose out the window, breeze in your face, smellin’ the roses. Everybody looks at me like I’m some sort of movie star…all gaga and smiling and saying how handsome I am. Livin’ large, doc. Livin’ large.