I took History to the veterinarian clinic the other day.  Because, as I previously mentioned, I’m fascinated with words, veterinarian leaves me curious.  Part of me wonders if the root word is veteran, as it’s entirely contained in the longer form.  Another part of me wonders why only part of me was wondering; can’t I wholeheartedly do anything without either getting distracted or dozing off?  Mr. Taylor would most likely say no.  To all of me.

The wondering part of me isn’t very bright; what would be the logical connection between a person who has served for a long time and an animal surgeon?  Fortunately, my time spent in the waiting room provided me with that logical connection: it took over ninety minutes between me checking in at the front counter and seeing Dr. Mehlmann.  (The extraneous “H” and “N” in his name aroused momentary interest for me as well, but those were gone the second I stepped foot in the examining room.)

The grey room was wallpapered with cartoonish animal posters – Sylvester the cat in tacky golf knickers, ready to tee off on a clueless Tweety Bird; Minnie Mouse in 80’s legwarmers and Wayfarers beneath “She’s a Maniac”; a grid of zoo animals smoking cigarettes with the slogan “They look stupid too.”  Here’s one absolute truth: if I could train sixteen animals to smoke cigarettes, I’d start on Letterman’s stupid pet tricks and follow the talk show circuit until I was rich.  If any of those animal rights activist groups pursued me, I had a built-in alibi.  The animals used to be hooked on crack cocaine; they’re weaning themselves off.  During my night shifts, I’d received plenty of offers for illegal contraband.  I’d turned them all down (at most, a grey lie), but if I needed them, I had resources.

Dr. Mehlmann must have spent time as a clown with the masons.  His checkered bowtie and polka dot jacket didn’t impress me any, and History didn’t appear encouraged either.  Were there a couch in the room, History would have backed under it.  The doctor’s hair was slicked back like a crooner from the fifties, but he couldn’t have been that much older than me.  If he wanted to be an Elvis impersonator during his free time, I had no reason to object; at least he had the good taste to ape the pre-Vegas version.  If, however, he broke into song during the appointment, I was getting my co-pay reimbursed.

I scooped up History and the vet dropped his glasses from his brylcreemed coiffure over his eyes.  The lenses were thick and blurry; his pupils dilated the size of black dimes.  “What’s the matter, pussy?” 

I wasn’t sure whether he was asking me or the cat, but I explained how the berry juice on his underside was beginning to cause a rash.  Dr. Mehlmann’s tried to roll the animal on its back, but he couldn’t change History’s stance.  “When did you notice a problem with your pussy?”

His dimples indicated at least one of us found his questioning cute and/or entertaining.  I hoped my frown indicated at most one of us found his questioning cute and/or entertaining.

“Dunno.” 

I didn’t, really.  If Skeletor hadn’t said something, I’d still be concentrating my efforts on learning History’s escape route.  Last week, Mac told her about how Fate had some weird color on his belly, like a tattoo, ‘cept uglier.  Like a considerate neighbor (white lie #2), I investigated and saw fate’s back paws wheeling away and it’s jowls frantically gnawing at an unscratchable itch in the center of his belly.  I remembered a rumor that pit bulls’ jaws clench closed when they lock down on something.  Did that apply if the dog clamped down on itself?  If it did, I had some tools at the station that could probably pry it open. 

Later that evening, Skeletor pointed at my pet and commented, “Your kat to hav the sick also,” then coughed, “Off liederhosen” and returned to whence she came. 

I have nothing against foreigners, mind you.  My ancestors weren’t from here either, though I never paid attention to where it was my bloodline started.  I remembered a framed piece of cross-stitched of a family tree with my mother’s parents’ names on the trunk.  My mom’s and dad’s names were right above those, and I was the lone apple.  I tried explaining to Mom how the gift must have been a joke – you don’t do family trees when all the parties involved are only children.  Though she left it to me in her will (who else?  I was an only kid, remember?  I haven’t even left the paragraph yet!), I think I ended up selling it at a garage sale, for the frame.  When they offered me the needlework, I declined. 

Dr. Mehlmann chuckled.  “Oh, this is nothing.  You should have seen the little dog that just left here.  What a bitch!”

Some people only watch American Idol during the early rounds to see the losers who had people (I won’t call them “friends”) encourage them to display their utter lack of talent on a national showcase.  I happened to catch Last Comic Standing once, which was the equivalent reality show for stand-up comedians.  I didn’t remember seeing Dr. Mehlmann’s face, but his delivery was so awesomely awful, I’m sure he could’ve appeared in a clip of rejects.

He actually pointed at his They look stupid too poster at a donkey and snorted, “How do you like the **** on that one?”  I reconsidered my earlier assessment; I could have much more easily tolerated “Viva Las Vegas” than this.

“What about History, doc?”

He searched the inside of his mouth with his tongue, probably digging for some laughter-inducing morsel.  Finding none, he diagnosed, “It’s just a rash.  Probably an allergic reaction.  Get some jock itch cream, over the counter.  They test that stuff on animals, anyway.  It works.”

He shook my hand again, opened his office door, and called to the receptionist, “Send in those orphaned gerbils!  Let me get a look at those bastards!”

I admit I was curious to see how he’d justify the f-bomb, but not nearly enough to endure any more time with this quack.  See?  I could’ve called him a sick **** and that would’ve taken care of it.  Guess I did it now, anyway.

After a quick drop-in at the pharmacy, we got home and I summoned History for a treatment.  He scratched at my fingers whenever I tried to apply the goop, until finally I demonstrated it wasn’t so bad.  I dropped my drawers and rubbed the white cream between my legs while offering a silent prayer that I turned off all my webcams.  Finally, I squirted a sizeable dollop from the tube and smeared it on the carpet under the sofa; let History take care of itself.