Hello friends, Daisy here. I’m hijacking the blog for a good, well-deserved rant.
I went to the vet recently – no, strike that, I was taken against my will – for my annual “visit”. HAH! That’s no visit! When people visit my family, they don’t show up with needles, they don’t stick thermometers up each other, and they certainly don’t pull back each others lips to study their teeth. Not to mention some other less-than-social things that happen on this so-called vet “visit“.
It wasn’t bad enough that he gave me my annual shots (!), took my temperature (!!) and took my blood (!!!), but he poked and probed me in some very unwelcome ways. ::ahem:: I will spare you the details.
The good news is that all the test results came back perfect. I am healthy. YAY!
BUT…there’s always the other side – he called me MIDDLE AGED!!
My family calls me “puppy” more than they call me “Daisy”! They always say “You’re the sweetest little puppy ever!” How can I be middle aged?!
I have one word for you, my dear vet.
Yeah. That’s right.
You call me middle aged? I call you RUDE.
You may have saved my life when I was a baby.
You may have helped me through all my dangerous damages and awful illnesses.
But you do NOT, under any circumstances, call a girl “MIDDLE AGED”.
At least not to her face.
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