Don’t Let Your Mom Take Me to the Vet

I had to laugh when my dad told me that yesterday morning, as he and my mom were waiting for the tech to call him back for an MRI. He had cataract/Lasik surgery on one eye a few weeks ago, and while they were doing all of the prescreening tests for the surgery, they discovered an issue with one of his heart valves. (As a quasi-medical person, I should be able to tell you exactly what it was, but I can’t.) They went in and fixed it, and now he’s having a post-procedure MRI, to make sure everything looks good with his aortic artery.

The joke about the vet has been ongoing for the last several years – he likes to rib my mom and tell us kids that anytime he has anything medical going on – “Nance, don’t let your mom take me to the vet”. We’ve always had dogs, starting with a couple of Dalmations when we were really young, then my dog Charlie, Rob’s dog Sandy, and Tara’s dog Sam – just a few of the many pets over the years. Growing up in a small town, many of our dogs met their end after developing the bad habit of chasing the speeding cars up and down the hilly country road where we lived.

But a couple of dogs in the last few years have had to be put to sleep with little to no notice, after becoming ill. Mom has always been the one to lug all of the animals to the vet for shots, illnesses and for anything else they needed. So she was the one that had to make the decision with the vet to put each dog to sleep.

And my dad, with his sense of humor, liked (likes, still, how many years later!?) to joke that he doesn’t know what happened - "One day the dog was home, and the next day your mom took it to the vet and we never saw that poor dog again. I don’t know what happened – just don’t let your mom take me to the vet, Nance."

The good news is the MRI went fine, he's doing great and there's no vet in the near future.

Happy Friday to all, glad the weekend is here!