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William C. Altreuter
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Tuesday, March 03, 2009

I took the gray cat to a new vet the other day, and it was a refreshingly sane experience, largely devoid of anthropomorphism. At the old vet they'd ask stuff like, "What is L******'s last name?" ("Uh, I don't know. Cat, I guess. Or Katz-- maybe she's Jewish. Middle initial T.") These people were pretty clear on the concept-- they were dealing with an animal, and although they used a soothing tone of voice, there was no baby talk. I just noticed that the label on the prednisolone they prescribed has the cat's name on it, and says "feline"-- the old vet put my name on the lable, which made me worry about what I'd say if USATF ever came to my house for a random drug test. Not a particularly likely contingency I will concede, but still, how lame does-- "No, really, I'm just holding it for my cat" sound? Floyd Landis didn't even sink that low. No matter what the vet is going to be full of crazy people-- pet ownership is a peculiar thing. Yesterday, for example, we saw a little old lady with the biggest Rottweiler I've ever seen. She needed someone to help her get it to the car. What the hell is a lady like that doing with a dog like that? Sounds like a Marie Prevost tragedy in the making. The old vet was a cat specialist, but I like a vet with dogs and cats-- I believe in diversity, and think its important for pets to be exposed to different points of view. (Thanks to Again With the Comics for the image.)

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