When I was a puppy, I actually loved going to the vet. I’d bound up the stairs, dart into the waiting room, sit back and let everyone admire me. Next, I’d smell all the dogs’ heinies, try to steal some kibble from the “take some if you need it” pile (I needed it),
sweet-talk Analie at reception into giving me a treat, and crack everyone up by not
sitting still for even a second on the scale. Then I caught on. At least half the time — maybe more? — you get shots. So I didn’t like going anymore. I’d do my brakes-on, sit-down strike at the foot of the stairs — and if Beagle Man carried me in, I’d immediately turn and face the door and refuse to look at anyone. But it was a different story when Luz took me to my friend Nena’s appointment. Nena was one jumpy and nervous chihuahua on the way over. The vet told Luz that Nena would need two shots. Then he looked at me. “Who’s this?” “That’s Ricky,” Luz said. “I take care of him. He doesn’t need anything. He’s just waiting for Nena.” I heaved a big sigh of relief, sat back and enjoyed the show. Call it Schadenfreude if you want to, but when it comes to shots, better her than me.
The Roof Rack Report (#roofrackreport on Twitter, for those who follow me already on @BeagleManHank) appears on Mondays, usually. It’s about politics, travel, food . . . important stuff like that.
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