I put Cecilia in the car this morning to her great delight, and drove off to the inevitable yearly check up, which loosely translates into yearly money-making scheme for the vet, in layman's terms. Cecilia loves the vet, mostly because it means people touch her and give her treats. She sits, she stays, she lays on her back exposing her tummy and asking for rubs with that face...that face...all things she fails to do when we have guests over at home. When people come over, she jumps and licks and basically loses control out of sheer joy. It's as though she gets it that these other humans in the office setting are professionals, and worthy of her obedience.
So I'm sitting there adoring my perfect dog as she is adored, in turn, by the assistants and veterinarian who attend to her. "She's so good! Good girl! Good GIRL CECILIA!" I'm over-abundant in my praise, but she deserves it after wagging her tail while they jab her with a needle and draw her blood, while they do the "recommended" feces check, ramming a plastic stick up her ass, while they clip her nails, a service they offered and in a heartbeat I'd said yes. It was a proud morning.
When it was all over and I approached the check-in desk and they said "your total will be $230" in all seriousness, only then did I look down at the dog, sitting ever so nicely, waiting, head cocked, and wonder how "good" she really was.
When I get home, she better have some dinner waiting for me, damnit.