The Mouths Of Babes And Children

One of the good things about living in a small town is that I get a chance to do some volunteer programs at the local schools. This all comes about because I'm one of a very small number of vets in town, and clients who work at schools feel comfortable asking me, because we're all just folks here, if I'd like to do school programs.

I admit I love the thank-you notes that I get from the little kids. But there are compensations to the older kids as well.

One of my annual gigs is to go to the local middle school for mock interviews. This is a program in which the kids are asked what they might like to do for a living, and then to create a resume, a cover letter and fill out an application. Based on the kinds of jobs the kids are angling for, the school counsellor contacts local professionals and asks them to come in for a morning to interview the kids as if they were actually applying for a job. The professionals are asked to rate the "applicants" on appearance, demeanor, cover letter, CV, and preparedness. Because my little land-locked town in not bristling with marine and other wildlife biologists or equine trainers to the stars or TV animal trainers, I generally get tagged for those as well, not to mention all the vet-tech stuff.

Now, these are middle-schoolers, so most of them are about 11 to 13 years old. We don't expect them to come in with all guns blazing - although some of them do - and while many of them are laboring under some serious misconceptions about what is involved in becoming a vet, I always try to find something encouraging to say. I don't want to crush their little egos, after all. On the other hand, I also don't want to be so easy on them that they think it's a cake walk getting into vet school - or having a career in veterinary medicine, come to that. It's not fair to them to lead them to expect that it's just a fa-la-la, I decided to go to vet school and they have to take me because I have the tuition. Unfortunately, some of the kids who think they want to be vets are probably barking up the wrong tree. It's not so much my place to tell them "This is not the career for you" as it is to introduce them to the realities of it and get them to think about what they propose to let themselves in for. Vet school is expensive and gruelling, and although it was also really great (at least for me), it's not for everyone. If you're not cut out for it, or vet med isn't really your cup of tea, it's probably better to discover that BEFORE you go to the trouble and expense of vet school.

It's a delicate balancing act; I have to tell the truth but do it kindly and with some finesse. Hm. It turns out that being a vet has trained me to do a few other things besides medicine, because the delicate balancing act is one at which this line of work makes you adept, whether you want to be or not.

Mind you, being a middle child in a large family has instilled diplomacy into me from the cradle. This has come in handy many a time, and often long before vet school. Once as a grad student I was trying to describe to a colleague a particular student who they needed to talk to. A fellow grad student, who also knew the student in question, was standing with us. Well, how do you actually end up describing faces? They nearly always have the usual number of eyes and noses and mouths, and there are only so many shapes a face can take. So I said, "He's about 6 feet tall, clean-shaven, has dark hair and eyes and - um - a youthful complexion - "

The other grad student burst out laughing. "You are SO diplomatic!" she said.
"What do you mean?" asked our colleague.
"She means he has acne!" exclaimed the other grad student.

Um, well, yes. But there's more than one way to present the facts, don't you think? You don't want to obscure the truth, but there's no reason to be harsh.

At any rate, one year when I was doing my interviews, I had in front of me an absolutely petrified 12 year old boy. As always, when doing the interviews, the student had been provided with a list of questions intended to act as a guideline to get them thinking and asking about the realities of the job. I had been provided with the same list of questions (so as to be prepared). In addition, I'd been doing the interviews for several years by then, and had my patter down, my stock answers at the ready. So, when this boy was sitting in front of me, so terrified that his hands were actually shaking, I was able to smile encouragingly at him and wait calmly for him to stutter out the question, doing my best to let relaxation ooze out of me and across the table and seep into him before his heart actually leapt out of his chest.

Maybe that's why I wasn't expecting it.

"Wh-what is th-th-the best thing ab-b-b-out your job?" asked my little student, reading from the paper trembling in his quaking hands. Remembering the interview skills with which he had been coached, he then looked up at me, pupils dilated with terror, but expression trusting and earnest. Maybe it was that, that disarmingly trustful look, reminiscent of a thousand anxious pets and clients I've seen and treated and tried my best to help, that did it: that look that tells me they're frightened, but they have placed their hope and faith in me, and believe that I will not willingly see them come to harm. I opened my mouth, ready to give him my usual answer, and then it happened. Someone hijacked my lips. Instead of what I meant to say, this is what came out of my mouth:

"The best thing about my job is that every day, when I go home, the world is a better place than it was when I got up - because I got up."

The boy nodded earnestly, thinking this over, and completely unaware that I was hearing this for the first time, too - or that, having had something else entirely in my head, I was far more surprised to hear it than he was. My heart gave a deep, thudding beat, knocking hard against my sternum as if to punctuate my words, as if to tell me: Pay attention. This is the Truth.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: twelve year old boys. They'll break your heart. Wide open, sometimes.

Because that is the truth. That's it. That's why I do this. That's why I get up at 4 in the morning and 40 below zero when someone calls me. That's why I am willing to literally crawl through blood and shit to try to save the life of a parvo puppy. That's why I drag myself out of bed after a long night of emergencies in the clinic and go in and do it again: It's because when I'm done, the world will be better off. I'm just one little person in one little town, and I only change this one small corner of the world - but it takes me, specifically, to do that bit of good. These are the skills I chose to learn, and worked very hard to acquire; not everyone has them. So it's up to me to take my brain and my hands and whatever else I can bring to it, and do my little part to make the word better.

It's not like I'm creating world peace or ending poverty or world hunger, and I'm by no means the only person who spends their days making the word a better place. Probably most of us do that, in one way or another, every day. But still. There's something deeply satisfying about building good, one little piece at a time, and being able to see the results of it. And it's humbling to realize that if I don't do this part, the part that is mine to do, it won't get done. Maybe that wouldn't be as true in a bigger community where there's more overlap, but here - there aren't many of us, so maybe it's more obvious the ways in which all of us count.

It's a humbling thing, and one that I am grateful for: to have work that I love, and which helps the community in which I live.

Humbling too, and full of a strange and lovely grace, that I learned this, the central Truth of why I do what I do, from one young, earnest and slightly terrified boy.

Out of the mouths of babes and children....

Eating Your Words

So, didja ever have one of those days when you said something that sounded different in your head than it did out loud? Or maybe when you said something without thinking and regretted the words the instant they were out of your mouth?

Back before I went to vet school, I was a graduate student in the Fisheries and Wildlife Biology department. During that time I had a TA-ship with a professor who taught Public Relations to budding wildlife biologists. One day, he asked me to go with two of the undergrads and give a program to one of the local grade schools.

The two undergrads were in their early twenties, young men who were work-study students for Professor D. I was only a few years older, maybe 26 or so, but they were endearingly respectful and seemingly almost awed by my status as [insert angel choirs and ethereal light here] a Graduate Student. They were oh-so-careful to get all the props together and offered to carry the heaviest ones to the truck (ignoring for the moment that I was recently off the racetrack and had biceps that were nearly as big as theirs). This was all rather sweet, and since they were earnestly being respectful and polite, I allowed this with nary a smirk, and thanked them graciously.

The three of us trundled out to the truck, a tiny Chevy Luv owned by one of the students. (At the time, I relied on public transportation to save money). The two boys carried the slide projector and the boxes of slides, and one of the two animal mounts (a beaver and a mallard duck). I carried the other.

We crammed ourselves into the miniature cab of the truck, slides and projector nestled between the feet of one of the guys, animal mounts on our laps. I sat in the middle (this offered in a courtly way, and I'm sure a more comfortable socio-psychological arrangement for the guys than being crammed in on top of one another, with me on the end.) The only way we could all fit - and still leave the driver enough space to shift gears without getting MUCH better acquainted with me - was if I sat with my left leg crossed above my right and my left foot braced against the lower panel of his dash, more or less in the glove box. This wasn't as uncomfortable as it sounds; I was able to brace myself securely, and it allowed a scant clearance between the gear shift and the bottom of my thigh to preserve the modesty of the driver. In addition I was young and flexible, and very fit, so I was perfectly content with the arrangement. Certainly I was more comfortable about it than the two guys were, both of whom kept their eyes studiously on the road and maintained a steady patter of small talk to distract themselves from the idea that they were smashed sardine-style up against (gasp!) a Grad Student.

In due course we arrived at our destination, extricated ourselves from the confines of the truck, and put on a successful and interesting wildlife program for the kids. The beaver and duck mounts, which we passed around, were a big hit, as were the many extremely good slides, and we left there with both sides well-satisfied.

Back to the clown truck to fold ourselves back in. I scrunched myself into the middle again, the guys sandwiching themselves in beside me. The passenger guy had a little trouble shuffling his feet amongst the slides and projector whilst still balancing his stuffed duck, so I uncrossed my legs for a minute to give him more room to get situated. Then, balancing my own mount, I had to re-cross them, which was mildly challenging in the tight space. Ever helpful, and noticing my contortions, the kid to my right asked me, "Do you want me to hold your beaver?"

I couldn't help it. I gave him A Look, brow cocked and sidelong. He went red to the roots of his hair. I started laughing. The driver started laughing. We all started laughing. The kid was still beet-red, but at least he no longer looked like he wished he would spontaneously combust and disintegrate into a tiny smoking pile of ash.

"No, thank you," I said demurely. "I believe I can manage it myself."

After that, I admit, I was smirking. Just a little. Innocently. Both guys were noticeably flushed, but I (fresh from the track, and used to far worse on an hourly basis) was serene. Deeply amused, but serene.

We got back to the U and the guys unloaded the slides and projector, walking briskly a half step ahead of me whilst I carried my beaver sedately back into the building. I could pretty much feel the heat waves rolling off their heads as I walked along in their wake. They neatly stashed everything - sedulously avoiding my gaze - and the passenger kid took off out of there like a scalded dog. The other kid was pointed toward the door when Professor D came out and asked us how it went.

"Oh, fine," I said. "The slides were a hit, and of course the kids loved the animal mounts." I carefully avoided adding, "Everyone loves a stuffed beaver," but I think a little glint of mischief might have shown in my eye, because suddenly the other undergrad melted away like frost on a spring morning.

Didja ever have one of those days....?

Patty-cake Man

Another school program for Finn today. Preschool, actually, this time. I expect I won't be getting thank-you notes this time, as the children are only three to five years of age. However, I consider myself well-repaid by Finn's delight in the event.

This is what I love about this dog. A stockdog he will never be, but he's a wonderful pet, and he is SO stable in temperament. He's also goofy and hilarious, and really quite beautiful (or so think the good people at Brown Trout, who have chosen him for two more calendars this year, including his second stint as cover-boy.) He's an honest dog, too, one whose entire soul is in his eyes, right there for anyone to see. There isn't a sly bone in his body. What you see, when you look into his eyes, is what you get.

Our program started with me going in and talking to our twelve or so preschoolers about what a vet is and what a vet does. (I never bring the dog in right off the bat, because the minute I do I become pretty much invisible and chaos reigns.) So I sat on a little bitty chair while the kids clustered at my feet in a solemn little circle. One little boy, crying after having fallen down, sniffled and hiccupped and scrubbed at his little eyes while I talked about what a vet does. One little girl asked me if I ever treated bears.

"Well, no - I could, if one came in, but not very many people have bears for pets," I tell them. "Mostly if you see a bear, you should stay away from it, even if you ARE a doctor." This is the kind of thing that makes the grade-schoolers laugh uproariously (although I'm not quite sure why), but my little circle of preschoolers nods earnestly. We talked about shots and check-ups and surgery and X-rays. Some of the children talk about their dogs who have been sick, or (in one sad case) run away.

After a few minutes it's time to bring in Finn. When we enter the building, the lunch-worker (busy in the kitchen making snacks) makes a beeline out of the kitchen, cooing in delight. Finn, however, knows there are children nearby, and can't be still. After a perfunctory greeting he almost completely ignores her, casting about, nose twitching, leaning on the leash, a big grin on his face. I allow him to tow me into the classroom, where he is greeted with squeals of glee from some children and doubtful looks from others - he's 43#, leggy and tall, and he probably looks pretty big to some of them. I park him at the foot of my chair, but he is too excited to sit still; he sits up on his haunches and does his two-handed patty-cake wave at the children, who giggle and point and chirp with delight. The little crying boy stops rubbing his eyes and starts to smile a little. Finn eels his way between the children, who are starting to crowd closer. He licks the little crying boy, who starts to essay watery giggles. He reaches out one of his paws and pats a little girl, who squeals with delight and replies by patting him (rather hard) on the top of his head. Finn squints through this, but his tail never stops wagging, and he wriggles closer so she can hug him. One little boy squeals (with every evidence of delight) "He attacked me with his tail!" as if this is the most exciting thing that has happened to him all year. (In all fairness, Finn's tail is extremely luxuriant, and is just about the perfect height to smack a sitting 4-year-old directly in the head. It probably IS like being attacked.) Several of the children are trying to hug Finn at once. He leans into their encircling arms, licking those he can reach, pawing gently at others. Several of them grab his paws - something many dogs would take immediate offense to - but Finn does not care. He lays on his side so they can cluster around him and rub his belly, joyfully patty-caking a bit more. He leaps to his feet so he can squirm amongst other children, hanging back. The teacher has to send some children back to their own class; apparently drawn by the excitement and the mysterious power of dog vibes to penetrate through the closed door, some of them have left their own classroom and happily inserted themselves into the small swarm of children milling around Finn.

After a few minutes of complete dog pandemonium, I corral him back to my feet and show the children how I do a physical exam. I show them Finn's broken canine tooth (root-canalled by my own dentist, since we lacked the equipment). I find Finn's heart with the stethoscope and let the children try it on to listen to his heart, racing with excitement. Soon it is time to leave, but it is difficult to get out of the room - the children don't want to see Finn go, and they cluster around him, giving him "just one more hug", trailing along with him, petting him on the back, running their fingers over his glossy black coat, stroking his silky ears. Finn abets their efforts, hanging back, or spinning on his leash as we head to the door, looking back at the little throng of children, now waving bye-bye at him.

At last we make it to the door. Finn is disappointed, but accepts this loss of congress with his little friends philosophically, now making time for the lunch lady as we depart. Outside it's a mild morning, low 20's and slightly overcast, and ravens are wheeling overhead. Finn hops into my truck, still smiling. I'm smiling a bit myself.

I can think of worse ways to spend a morning.

Gratitude, Sixth-Grade Style

So, from time to time I am called upon to do educational programs at some of the local elementary and middle schools. I generally take some X-rays to be displayed on the overhead projector (I have quite a collection of old films rescued from th to-be-culled pile), and sometimes a bone plate or some bladder stones. I also bring a dog, since this is the real reason for the programs, at least so far as my audience is concerned. Generally I take either Finn or Kenzie as my demo dog, as both of them adore children beyond all reason. Each has their advantages; Kenzie, my Westie, is small and engaging and kissy and less likely to be threatening to little children who are fearful of dogs. In addition (if the desks are arranged in a ring) she can walk desktops full-circle, to the delight of the children in the room (both because there is a dog in school, and because it walked on the desk! On MY desk! IN SCHOOL!) Finn, one of my Border collies, is three times Kenzie's size, affording more space for little patting hands, and he knows some endearing tricks (in addition to which he's less likley to be overwhelmed by being completely mobbed by children, since he's not as short and doesn't feel quite so "buried" if they all swoop down on him at once.) He's also unfailingly cheerful and has the most stable temperament of all my dogs.



When it's the middle school, I usually take Finn; for some reason Kenzie is less comfortable in "big kid school", so I reserve her for the second-graders. Finn is an equal-opportunity ham, however, and happily goes wherever I take him, regardless of the age of the children.

Finn is also (in my 100% unbiased opinion) a very good-looking dog, and one who does not require grooming to look spiff (although in the photo above he's had his belly shaved for surgery - a story for another time.)

I do the school programs in part because I enjoy them; in part because I try to do some community-minded volunteer-type stuff (after all, I get a great deal from this community, so I feel it's only right to give something back); and in part, I admit, because I live for the thank-you notes. I adore the thank-you notes. They're dear and funny and sweet, full of gratitude and charm. I admit I find the spelling and grammar errors endearingly amusing; this may be because I am myself an indifferent speller, and I can relate. (I am deeply grateful for spell-check for this reason, as well as because I'm an iffy typist and mildly dyslexic, to boot. And you should all be grateful for it, too, most especially as it seems NOT TO BE WORKING for this post, so you're going to have to suffer my deficiencies this time around. You poor things.)

At any rate, after one such school program at one of the local middle schools, I received in due course and as usual a hefty packet of thank-you notes. There are two distinctly different piles, evidently reflecting the different tones of the two classes. I suspect (though there's probably no way to find out) that the more formal ones came from the class where the teacher reminded me of my high-school gym teacher... kind of blunt and direct and a little bit brusque, but sort of funny (to an adult, at least) as a result of her bluntness. She struck me as more of a disciplinarian and therefore perhaps less likely to encourage a lot of extra creativity in the students. The other group (wildly creative) I suspect to have come from the class taught by the sexy piratical guy, the one with the shaven head and the van dyke. Kind of an offbeat persona, which at least implies that he might encourage a more creative approach in the TY notes. But I could have that compeltely backwards, and there's no knowing.

Anyway, many of the notes came with drawings of dogs and cats and various other animals (some of the more ghoulish kids drawing several Frankenstein-esque gashes sutured with something heavy enough to tie down a small plane). One made a rather adorable little pop-up thank-you doggie inside, and a couple wrote my name in snakes or other animal shapes. One girl engineered her card (with staples) into the shape of a kite (although I initially took it for a paper airplane, til I opened it). And one enterprising lad wrote an entire poem to me (or maybe it's a commercial jingle). I'll try to hit the highlights (and despite my usual egregious typing, the spelling errors you are about to see are faithfully copied from the originals - mostly, at any rate)...

Dear, Dr.

I am listening to everybedy talk whale there supos to work. Now the teacher is talking. I listen when I am wrighting. [I rather like the introspective tone of this beginning.] I like the part when you told me what dog apered the most. Another part I like is the xray of the dog that ate the rocks. And how you get thame out. The job that I whoud whant is Chane Reactions. Chane Reactions is a julury stor whare you learn how to make beads, neckleses, braslets and shapes. [Presumably spelling isn't a big part of the job]. Thank you for telling me about vets and what they do. I hope I can see you ageane. I whish you where hear rigt now. [That's rather sweet, isn't it?] I whish you luck with the animals.

Dear Dr.

Thank you for coming to our class about your proffession. I thought that the little dog you brought in at the end was really cute. I thought some of those pictures of the dogs that had been hit by cars were perrty gross. [No photos - WAY too graphic. Instead, a couple of Xrays of broken legs, bladder stones, rock dogs, pregnant dogs, etc.] I think it would be interesting to work on a snow lepord. [This evidently in reference to me telling them about working on snow leopards (oops, I mean lepords), rhinos, bison, etc, at the Denver Zoo when I was a student].

Dear Dr.

Thank you for explaining your job to us. I enjoyed seeing the pictures of the animals with broken bones and diseases. [This must be one of the ghoulish ones]. I especially liked your dog, I didn't get to touch it so I hope you can bring him again.

Dear Dr.

I thought it was weird how one of the dogs swallowed about 10 rocks. I was the one who guessed it. [I put up the Xrays and ask the kids what they think that is... I'm not sure it teaches them a lot about what it is to be a vet, but they really like it.] I think that if you like having dogs as pets you should get a canarie island bird dog. They are really nice becuase they always listen and they are very loyal. [Okay, this is the first time I've gotten advice on what breed I should own while doing one of the school programs. Clearly this child knows something I don't, since I've never heard of a Canary Island Bird dog. And if there's any breed on earth that always listens, I'm eager to learn more.]

Dear Dr.

Thank you for caming in and talking to us about your job as being a veteranarian. I think ispired alot of people. I think that you did a good job. [Ahhhh, my first rave review of the batch. Always nice to know you've performed well.]

Dear Dr.

I liked your prformens it was good. The best part about your prformes is that I diden't know that dogs would eat rocks. But I thought that all of the exrays were cool. I thought that the dog that got shot in the head and diden't even know wus the cooest. [TRUST me the dog knew when he got shot in the head. Even the densest, goofiest American Bulldog will tend to notice a thing like THAT.] Well, I won't to thank you again for comming in Thanks.

Dear Dr.

Thank you for comeing in to my class. I had a cat that had a broken leg. Your friend, Jess [I suspect this is one of the 2 kids who didn't get to tell me about his pet's injury/illness/visit to the vet during my 25-minute visit, since approximately 27 of his little classmates were doing so all at the same time.]

Now we come to the 'creative' batch, most of which were folded like cards, and many of which featured color drawings exhibiting various degrees of talent for color, form and gore.

To: Dr.

Thank you! [accompanied by a drawing of a dog with several Bandaids stuck to its head, a long incision on the neck apparantly closed with 30# test line, and (judging by the angle) a dislocated shoulder.] Inside is written: I'm glad you came. You showed us some x-rays and thanks for answering my questions about British Bulldogs

sincirly, Rory [underneath which is drawn a very stiff-looking dog all in black except for the end of its nose and its eye, which are white. The reason for the strange coloration is apparant in the caption, which reads "Full body cast".]

[On the front] THANKS [with grass, flowers, a biiiig sun, and a dog and a cat both apparently levitating above the flowers.]

[Inside] Rank roo rery much! Dr. Petit [I believe this is the Scooby Doo entry.] I think your job cool and I wold like to look into the job more because you make it look FUN! [All in blazing color.]

[On the front a picture of a dog through a window, which at first I took to be a little Harry Potter wizard dog because it looked like it was wearing a pointy hat. On closer inspection, however, it proved to be a dog with THREE Bandaids (two crossed in an X), a long scary incision with more of the heavy nylon rope-type sutures, and a bandage tied around its forehead, above which protrude the pointy ears, evidently glued together into a spike, which is what I mistook for the hat.] Dear Doc

[Inside] I am so glad that you came in because after I've lived all my life with animals I want to become a vet. The first time I wanted to be a vet was when I helped my mom save a lamb when I was in the forth grade. [Accompanied by a drawing of a dog covered from head to toe in an intricate crosshatching of bandages that would do a mummy proud. The only things not covered by the wrap are the muzzle, the eye, and the ears - again appearing to be glued together into that darn spike.]

Dear Mrs. Dr.

Thank you for comeing to our class! My favoret part was the exray's. Some day I might become a vetinairian. [Along with a vividly colored portrait of what appears to be a dachshund approaching a bonsai tree, possibly to urinate on it, based on the pose... or perhaps this is the one child in the class who noticed that Finn tried to claim one little boy as his own by urinating on his shoe. (Yikes.)]

[On the front, along with a drawing of a long-necked something that looks quite a bit like a llama] Dear D Thank you for coming!

[Inside, along with another sketch which I take to be an animal of some description, since it has four legs and a head with long pointy ears] Dear D thanke you for coming to our class. I learned somethings. I never new that dogs can get elphaseaha. [??? I *think* he means emphysema, which is the only thing I can come up with that comes even close; although I don't recall mentioning emphysema to them, I certainly might have done. I did say "testicles", after all, so I might have lost my head completely and said practically anything.]

[On the front, along with a head-on view of a cat with a VERY large nose - unless it's a tumor - and a dog which appears to be plugged into some sort of electrical device capable of making all its fur stand on end, not to mention producing a distinct look of alarm on its Crayola'd face.]

Thank you Keith A.

[Inside] Thank you for coming. If I need my gerbil worked on, I'll come to you. In the meanwhile, be carefull and have a good time. Sincerly, Keith A. P.S.: When handleing needles, don't pook yourself. [Sage advice, which I give you my word I ty to follow daily.]

Thank You Dr. [On the front, along with drawings apparently erased but still visible, of a muscle man hanging from the "o" on "you" - rather nicely done, actually - and a tree with what appears to be an orangutan in it, perched in the branches above what is either a small rhino or a really big warthog.]

[Inside] I reely liked the fact you have don surdry on a monky. [Here he must be again referring to my stint at the Denver Zoo, unless he has somehow gotten wind of that unfortunate encounter with Mickey Dolens and Davy Jones...]

Dear Dr.

Thank you for coming. It is a delight that you take time off work for us. I really enjoyed when you showed us the ex-rays. I think you changed my mind about a doctor. I'm going to be a vet. [Accompanied by a rather adorable drawing of a dog, although he does have little stars in his eyes which make him look like someone just cold-cocked him.]

And the piece de resistance (I hope I can do this one justice...)

On the front are drawings of a snake with a biiiig bulge in the middle, an apparently sneezy cat with (I kid you not) a box of tissues in its paws (clearly labelled, with one popped up out of the top), a dog with a ferocious grimace on its face and what looks like a Robert Jones bandage on its back leg, and small aquarium with three smiling fish in it. My little artiste has written "Thank You Dr.!" At the bottom of the page he's signed it "From: Jake". Inside, it goes like this (and I am NOT making this up):

A PET TETE-A-TETE

If your cat is sick or your dog thinks he's a nick Call the VET!

If a snake swallows a ball or a pig takes a fall bring in your PET!

If your bunny is funny (hey, that's kind of punny) call the VET!

If your fish is almost a dish (while watchin' TV! (well, not the Omish!))[could he mean "The Comish"?] your pet's standards are MET!

Next to this is a hilarious picture of a snake (evidently the one that swallowed the ball, since it has a hugely distended middle) and a cartoon speech bubble saying "BURRRP!"

This was funny enough, but on re-reading it later for a second giggle, I happened to flip it over and on the back (where the Hallmark logo would be) he has written:

P.E.T.Z.

Protection Egenst (against) Total Ziffheads.

No animals were harmed in the making of this card.

I just howled. Partly I was pretty impressed with little Jake (whoever he might be - although I'm not at all certain what a Ziffhead is), and partly it reminded me of a card I made for my "little sib" in vet school.

There's s program in vet school where they assign all incoming freshmen a "big sib": an outgoing freshman who, having just finished the gruelling and scary first year is (one hopes) in a position to advise the new frosh about books, prof's, exams and so on. Traditionally, the big sib comes and leaves a card with words of encouragement or a small present on their little sib's desk just prior to the first exam, to loosen them up and give a little moral support before the scariest exam of first semester (and maybe of the entire program). On the morning of my first vet school exam, I got a card, a plateful of snickerdoodles, a new eraser, a new and freshly sharpened #2 pencil, and a petri dish full of M&Ms labelled (on lab tape) "M&M culture - eat on [whatever the exam date was]". I thought the M&M culture was a pretty good idea, so I shamelessly stole it for my little sibs (of which I had two). I also made little hand-drawn encouraging cards - a general one for the one I didn't know as well, but a more personal one for M, the sib I'd roomed with over the preceeding summer. I went to a bit more effort there since we were friends and she'd spent a lot of time with me AND my little vet-school sidekick dog, Merrik.

Inside her card I wrote something along the lines of, "You've worked. You've studied. You've come to recognise your classmates by smell alone. You are READY for this test. You can do this!" (and several other rah rah statements). On the back - unnoticed, I was told later, the first time around (shades of my go with Jake's card), I had drawn a picture of Merrik - a good likeness, if I say so myself, with her abundant curly/wiry terrier-mix fur and her big bat ears, and a pronounced squint on the right, where she'd lost the eye. Under this "logo" I wrote "HallMerrik: When you care enough to send the hairy pest." Evidently during the exam M was sitting and waiting for her turn at the microscope, killing time, so she idly picked up the card to read it again and just happened to flip it over. I gather she aspirated an unfortunate amount of coffee, and that some of her classmates were less than pleased to have her burst out laughing hysterically in the midst of the exam. Tight-asses.

So that's the best of the thank-you notes from that visit... but I assure you there are others, from other programs in other years and other schools. I'd like to say that they're from my little fans, but by far and away most of them are really from fans of my dogs. That seems fair; of the two of us - my dogs VS me - they really have the more difficult job; I get to live with them.... but they, poor things, have to live with me.