Last Friday we took Rosita to the vet for her
post-adoption checkup; she’d had all her shots and been spayed, but they ask
that you have the new pet checked out.
We were pleasantly surprised at how easygoing
she was in car, in the waiting room, and then being poked and prodded by our
vet—who is dreamy AF, by the way. But they could not get a stool sample from
her so they sent us home with a small tube to, um, collect the sample. And,
even with his eyesight, the rule is Carlos takes care of what comes out of the
cats, so I put him in charge of collections.
He came to me Tuesday morning and asked if I
had time to stop at the vet’s office as he had done his part; and, to show me
his work, he held up a blue latex glove with one of the fingers tied off. I
tell him the sample should be in the tube provided and he said just take it in
the glove and we went back and forth with this until I finally said, somewhat
loudly so the neighbors might hear:
“I am not taking a glove full of cat
poop to the vet!!”
I never thought that was a sentence I would
utter … but the sample was put into the tube, and then the receptionist and I
laughed about Carlos, and then every single one of my co-workers and I laughed
about Carlos, and the woman at the take-out counter at Masa and I laughed about
it,
Good times. |