Last week I took Gracie to the Vet for her annual check-up. We were a few weeks early, but something was going on with her gastrointestinal system. Gracie hates the Vet. To get her there I have to go on a roundabout walk that just happens to end at their door. Halfway down the block she realizes where we are, stiffens up, digs into the concrete, and refuses to budge. Her eyes narrow into little slits. I’ve betrayed her again.
In the waiting room I sweet talk her and give her a biscuit. I scratch her ears and tell her she is a good girl. She is anxious. She whines. I’m embarrassed that my dog is a bad patient.
Each visit she is a bit more obstinate. Each visit she has to wear “a party hat” so the Vet can draw blood, take her temperature, and give her shots. She doesn’t like it, and it is a tussle to get the muzzle on properly. She is fear aggressive, and it takes two of us to get it on safely.
Gracie is six, middle aged but juvenile. Something she has in common with me. The stool and blood tests come back; she has a little giardia, nothing to worry about, it has been going around. They give me five packets of a powder. I mix one a day into her dinner. I pick up some heartworm nuggets and Frontline. I pay the bill. Hopefully, we won’t be back until next year.
I stare at the telephone unable to make the phone call, unable to cross off “make appointment with gynecologist” from my list. I hate going even though I am sure the doctor is a lovely person. I am way overdue, but I feel fine. For years I didn’t go to a doctor. I wasn’t on birth control, I didn’t want children, I never got sick. I only started going during peri-menopause when I began hemorrhaging from fibroids. Continue reading