Each summer, my partner Dan and I embark on a dangerous journey that we have dubbed the Worst Day of the Year – a journey so perilous that it involves meticulous mental and physical preparation, costs hundreds of dollars, and is almost guaranteed to end in blood, tears, or both. It is also known as our dog’s annual vet appointment.

A few years back, we adopted an adult rescue named Winnie, an adorable mix of Shiba Inu, German Shepherd, and Chow Chow (we think). We had imagined camping adventures, long neighborhood walks, and couch cuddles galore. What we got, though, was a crotchety third roommate who becomes murderously barky whenever somebody sneezes or a car door slams. After completing dog training classes, visiting a behaviorist, reading multiple books, and even watching a low-budget DVD on dog body language, we have been able to (mostly) let go of our previous expectations and accept and even accommodate her unique needs as a rescue with an unknown past. Basically, our lives revolve around her quirks now. And if we haven’t sacrificed enough, Dan and I are forced to test the strength of our relationship each year on the Worst Day. At one point, we even signed a contract stating that we would not hold each other responsible for hurtful, snarky comments made, acknowledging that, “All comments, gestures, and remarks are purely intended as a coping mechanism for said vet appointment.” Ridiculous? Sure. But necessary? Absolutely.

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At one point, we even signed a contract stating that we would not hold each other responsible for hurtful, snarky comments made, acknowledging that, “All comments, gestures, and remarks are purely intended as a coping mechanism for said vet appointment.” Ridiculous? Sure. But necessary? Absolutely.

SAMANTHA KOBS

This year’s Worst Day started like they all do. We scheduled an 8am appointment at the Eau Claire Animal Hospital, making sure to get the earliest time in hopes of avoiding too much other human or animal traffic (for their own safety). The night before, we prepared Winnie’s cheese chunk, beef stick, and Cheez-Whiz snackies. We rose with the sun and fed her a pharmaceutical cocktail of one acepromazine, four gabapentin, and four trazodone by 6 o’clock sharp. Then, we waited until her eyes glazed over and her signature Shiba Inu tail slowly uncoiled – the hallmark signs that the drugs were working. Just enough to take the edge off, as the vet describes it. Soon after, we drove to the appointment in silence, thinking of all of the previous attempts, the failed muzzle training and the million other tactics we had tried.

After checking in, we rushed Winnie into the nearest exam room and immediately started throwing cheese and beef chunks for her to sniff out and scarf down as a distraction while we answered the vet tech’s questions. Within a few minutes, our vet entered the room. By now, she knew the drill, and we all glanced and nodded at each other as if to say, it’s go time.

My first move was to spread Cheez-Whiz in front of Winnie to keep her busy for the precious minute that we would need to accomplish the mission. I sprayed the Cheez-Whiz, and Dan stepped into place, straddling Winnie and pinning her shoulders between his strong man thighs. Dan chose to wear welding gloves and thick jeans in case she got a little “bitey” – a lesson learned previously that ended in a few puncture holes and Dan nearly passing out on the sidewalk.

Once Dan was in place, my role was to reinforce by straddling Winnie’s waist between my strong lady thighs. Some years, we’ve straddled butt-to-butt. This year, however, I nervously jumped in and created a big-spoon-little-spoon formation, grasping Dan’s shoulders with a death grip and hoping for the best. In a situation like this, there is no time for correction.

Our vet had somehow already shook, flicked, and uncapped the vaccines. Without hesitation, she crouched down and emptied the contents of the syringes into the flesh of Winnie’s furry little behind. I braced myself for the bucking, yelping, and thrashing to begin, but instead it was eerily still and silent.

“...Is that it?” I asked, turning around to see our vet smiling and packing up her things.
“Yep, all done. Great job, Winnie!” she replied nonchalantly as if she hadn’t just survived a possible triple homicide.

Winnie just stood there, licking her Cheez-Whiz with eyes so glossy and squinty she looked like she’d just gotten back from a Willie Nelson concert. There was no blood, no baring of teeth, no loss of consciousness. We picked up our things, paid our bill, and made our way out to the car.
Aside from Winnie lunging at an innocent puppy on the way out, she was on her best good girl behavior the rest of the day which meant she napped really hard until the drugs wore off. Dan and I rejoiced in surviving another year with our relationship intact. Sure, Winnie isn’t perfect – but who really is? If you ask me, we could all use a little rescuing.

Big thanks to the unsung heroes of Eau Claire Animal Hospital – including our vet tech Alicia and Dr. Mackenzie Jeffers!