Today I take the artistic license of blogging to insert a bit of humor. I worked in veterinary clinics for years and came away with a wry outlook on human nature. The animals are predictable and true to form…humans, not so much.
Old Hippies
Dogs and cats come in a variety of breeds. With dogs it is easier to differentiate a Lab from a Pitbull, from a Chihuahua, from a Poodle. While cats are usually just Domestic: domestic long hair, domestic medium, and domestic short hair. Occasionally, we see a Bengal, Norwegian Forest, or Main Coon.
I have observed that our clients also fall into a variety of breeds. These breeds are not always the most obvious.
There is a particular breed of client I call Old Hippies, who may or may not be cross-bred with Vietnam Vet. These guys all have one thing in common: pot. They love it. They waft into the clinic in a dreamy cloud of the stuff with a mellow, perpetually cheerful, go-with-the-flow attitude. I know I can relax around this breed. They have no sharp teeth or claws left; their points have been rounded off by a whole lot of living. Like the grizzled old dogs that they are, they plod along with just enough energy to wag their tails. Around them I can take my professional posture down a notch and rest a bit. These guys don’t stress about the traffic, they don’t care who runs for President, its all good, happiness is just one smoke away.
Jim is a tall guy with long gray hair that is always pulled back into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, a beard and mustache that curls up on the ends, giving him a permanent smile. He has a cat named Brick, named after the Commodore’s song “Brick House.” Never mind that Brick is a male. You know the song:
She’s a brick house
She’s mighty mighty just lettin’ it all hang out
She’s a brick house
The lady’s stacked and that’s a fact
Ain’t holding nothing back
Every time he comes into the clinic we both say “Brick” at the same time and giggle. It is our little inside joke.
Once, Brick became ill with an undiagnosed malady. He spent some time at the ER and a few days in our clinic on supportive care. Jim was beside himself; Brick is his sole companion. I ran into Jim in the parking lot during this worrisome time. He began to tell me about his sister, struggling with breast cancer, the recent passing of his mother, and now Brick’s illness. He wept openly, then directly asked for a hug. We shared an awkward moment as my eyes darted around the parking lot, hoping no one was watching, hoping he wasn’t reading anything more into that hug.
Thankfully, Brick recovered and we have resumed our old relationship.
“Brick is here to get his nails trimmed.” Jim’s eyes twinkle and we share our inside joke again.
Carl stood before me at the check-out counter one evening. He is about my height, with wiry, gray scarecrow hair that sticks out from beneath his baseball cap, and a dusting of gray whiskers sprinkled across his heavily lined face. He waits quietly for his pet’s medication. Pandora is playing Golden Oldies and begins to croon,
One toke over the line, Sweet Jesus, one toke over the line.
At this, he rallies and notices I am there. He gives me a wolfish grin, showing yellow teeth from smoking too much whatever, and remembers his favorite joke.
“Do you know what the two most popular words were in the 60’s?”
I cut my eyes sideways and suppress a grin, “No….”
Still grinning, he says, “Wow and ear.”
“Ear?” A giggle is percolating deep inside me.
With pinched fingers and puckered lips, he takes a long, wheezing drag on an imaginary joint. He hands me the toke, squinting in the imaginary smoke, and squeaks out, “…’ere.”
We both burst out laughing.
I have never tried pot, I am marijuana virgin, but in that moment, Carl and I are compadres, having a few laughs, sharing an imaginary joint, having an imaginary pot party.
Glen is a giant of a man, standing at least 6’5”. Like a Viking specter, his gray hair falls to his shoulders and down his back. He wears an old, cracked leather jacket and is decked out with heavy silver chains around his neck and wrists. Every finger has a chunky silver ring, one is a skull with blackened eyes. When he smiles there are those long, yellow fangs again. He must really love that stuff. As he towers over me, I look up at him with a deer-in-the-headlights look of fear and awe, dumbstruck. But, then he opens his mouth. Turning to the woman client next to him, he says, “What a pretty little kitty you have!” And to another, “Such a precious puppy!” As he heads for the door, in a crackle of old leather and jangling jewelry, he tosses back a curtain of hair and throws me a girlish wave, exclaiming, “Have a lovely day, ladies!”
Pot is legal in Washington State now and I want to recommend it to some of our more uptight clients. It would do wonders for their dispositions and make my job a whole lot more fun.
Belonging 