Is there a doctor in the house?
My vet mentioned recent- ly that I had never written about him. That does put him in a rather exclusive group.
Over the years when I have needed a break from reporting on my own embarrassing moments, I mixed in a few from folks around me. Some were not too happy about it, either.
When he said that to me, there seemed to be no regret in his voice. In fact, I got the impression his observation was part of the answer to my question whether he could stop by to look at a four-legged patient needing his attention.
“You haven’t written about me. Yes, I can come by,” seemed to be inverse of “You wrote about me. Nope, I can’t make it.”
I seem to have a death wish of sorts when it comes to these kinds of things. I had learned the rules regarding our relationship. Now, all I could do was think of columns to write about him, knowing full well the consequences. How could I consider jeopardizing our rapport with a single stor y? I don’t know. I just had to. Until a stor y with him in it, even in a small way crept into these pages, I would not be able to think of anything else.
I like my veterinarian. He is good at his job. I put this first just to put his mind at ease and hopefully head of f any problems I might create later. My personal DVM is so good I ... well, I wish he wasn’t a veterinarian. I wish he had chosen to work on people instead.
When I call him he almost always comes right away.
House calls? Cool. If I load up a horse or cow to take to him, I seldom have to wait. He is always busy, but somehow he finds a way to work me in and make me feel I’m his only really important client at that moment. Not always so when I find it necessar y to visit the local “people vets.”
Time and time again I have called for an appointment, showed up early and then sat for 30 minutes while Dr. Tardy M.D. is doing something more important than see me. When he does find the time to grace me with his wisdom and presence, he seems distracted, in a hurry and not too happy to see me. Perhaps he has talked to the receptionist I’d harassed while waiting for him. “Use the dull needle on this one,” she probably advised. I seldom go to a Doc. Maybe we just haven’t gotten to know each other. I don’t really think we would get along any better if I saw him more often,
One day, knowing I did not have an extra 30 minutes to wait, I decided to lie a teeny bit to the receptionist. When I called in I might have told her I was bleeding badly and probably should see the M.D. P.D.Q.
“Oh sure, hurry,” she assured me, “The doctor will be waiting.” Her response was so sincere, I felt bad about the little untruth I’d told her. By the time I got to town and pulled up in front of the clinic, my guilt was over whelming. The guilt was compounded by knowing I was going to get caught as soon as I walked in. I didn’t have a bloody bandage. I had a sore shoulder.
When I walked up to the receptionist window, I was torn between my need to confess and the satisfaction at least I was going to get right in to see Dr. Personality. Hat in hand, head slightly bowed I admitted I’d made up the par t about serious, actually, any type of bleeding. Surprisingly calm and reassuring, the receptionist said she understood how a little misunderstanding like that could take place. She “understood and forgave me,” her smiling face informed me.
“As a matter of fact,” she went on warmly, “I have a little confession to make, too. The doctor doesn’t plan on coming in for another hour.” With that her tone turned very harsh as she instructed me to, “Sit the heck down, don’t bother me and I’ll call you whenever I darn well please.” Instantly my shoulder felt better and I left the office.
I hope this story didn’t offend my Vet. From now on I’m going to need him to treat not only my lame horses and sick calves, but me, too!
Gary Hodgson is a syndicated columnist and broadcaster. He and his wife, Sue, operate a ranch near Brush. He can be contacted at of fice@hodgsonmedia.com.