We recently got a new vet who comes to the house because it was either that or enroll in vet school so I could treat her myself.
Because Maddie–my geriatric German Shorthair Pointer–has always been neurotically afraid of the vet, ever since one of her very first vet appointments when the vet insisted on putting her up on the table–in spite of my ex’s objections–and she injured herself trying to leap off (ostensibly, I imagine, to kill herself; because to Maddie possibly dying was an upside to going to the vet).
Our new vet was very diplomatic, and–as Maddie whacked him in the face with her tail and stepped all over his equipment–he laughed it off as the actions of a “happy dog.”
Then he tried to make me happy by giving her two different kinds of pain meds–one of which he said would relax her (“So,” he said “you might want to give it to her when you need a good nights sleep.” And I’m like: then shouldn’t I take one too?). But, not surprisingly, the “relaxant” didn’t phase her at all. She still barks at me to play with her, gets into the trash, and jumps up on couches, even though she’s on four different meds and her back legs are collapsing from under her.
Honestly, she’s a force to be reckoned with. I love that freaking dog.