Doggie Doctor

Willie has hiccups.  He seems slightly alarmed and confused about this; each little urp makes his ears flop, and each time he hiccups he spins his head around to look at me.  Did you do that? 

This happens to be the morning of our first trip to our local vet; Willie’s getting his first exam today plus his vaccination for Lyme disease – something that’s fairly prevalent here in the Hudson Valley.  By the time we arrive at the vet’s office, however, his hiccups have resolved.

In the waiting room, a woman with a cardboard box in her lap sobs and blots her nose while waiting for her appointment.  A veterinary assistant takes Willie’s leash and leads him onto a scale that can weigh an animal up to three hundred pounds; Willie tips the Toldeos at barely ten.

Willie is delighted to meet the vet and the vet tech, and they are charmed by how cooperative he is while they probe each orifice, examine every inch of his body, and stab a needle under his skin.  The doctor nods his head in approval as he reviews Willie’s chart from the Central Louisiana Humane Society. “They already gave the dog all his required shots,” he says, “and he’s had all the optional ones, too.”

The doctor feels the implanted microchip near Willie’s shoulder blade, then picks up a hand-held scanner similar to ones I’ve seen in the supermarket.  The scanner beeps and displays a code number as it passes over Willie’s head while Willie, oblivious, nibbles my knuckle.  The doctor makes a new entry in the chart and reminds me that I need to register the chip with my name and contact information.  “Every animal control officer in every shelter now scans strays when they come in, looking for that chip,” the doctor says.  “If he loses his collar and his ID tag, that chip will still help him find his way home.”  I make a note to take care of this immediately as the vet talks some more about topical applications to repel fleas and ticks and about chewy, heartworm prevention pills.

We talk some more as the vet washes his hands, then sees me back into the waiting room where he shakes my hand then disappears behind the door for exam room two where a sick cat awaits.  As I reach for the handle of the exit door, I glance again at the woman with the cardboard box on her lap, blotting her red-rimmed eyes.  She looks up and, for just a second, we make eye contact; she takes in my healthy, bright-eyed pup and I consider the mysterious contents of the box on her lap – presumably a creature she loves but which is injured or sick or is about to be euthanized.  She manages a tight smile and I return a sympathetic nod – a silent exchange that contains multitudes.   I push the door open and the antiseptic smell of the vet’s office is replaced with fresh, cool, morning air.  Willie snuffles around my ear and shirt collar and as I carry him toward my car, I reflect on the beginning and the end of a life, on the pleasures and pain of loving an animal.