I took Pearl to the vet on Saturday for her annual well-dog visit.
The exam - for each of our animals, really - is a tremendous source of stress for me. Leading up to the appointment, my stomach churns. During the check-up, I tense up expecting some horrible discovery. Every time, I brace myself for the "Sorry, Mr. Head..."
It wigs me out so much that Suzanne usually takes them. I took Pearl and Cecil this time because the Wife needed to work on Saturday.
Cecil and Pearl are both healthy, reported the doc.
Kitty and Beagle each had to surrender stool samples, a process which involves a swizzle-stick-like device being inserted up the critters' back-side.
Immediately following the collection of her specimen, Pearl retreated the corner under the exam table. She wouldn't look at me or the doctor, so disturbed she was by what had happened.
"In my pooper," I imagined her agitated complaint, "They went into my pooper, man!"
Poor, pitiful Pearl.