A Visit to the Vet

Rub Me The Right Way
I like the vet because she helps me up on the table and I don't even notice the thermometer thing anymore. She knows where to touch me. There is some kind of electricity in her hands. A power that siphons off the pain and blows warm air through my creaky joints. It gives me chicken skin, if a dog can get that. It makes my nipples hard. Yes. This woman knows how to touch an arthritic dog. Give this woman a medal. I'm going to let her smell my butt.

That's right. Take my owner's hand and show him how to pet me the right way -- the vet way. The power way. Give me chicken skin. Yes, that's right, you clumsy little snot. Now let's see if mom and dad can do it this way. Yes, very good, people. All of you. Nice job. Now, how about forgetting that smack on the head that you all seem to think I enjoy so much and remembering to pet me this way. "Power Pet Your Pet." It's a T-shirt. Hell, it's a whole merchandise line. Power Pet mugs, Power Pet flea collars. It's endless.

Yes, listen to the vet. Do what she says. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Yes, that's right. I am in constant pain. Yes, she's right. It hurts all the time. Yes, she'll tell you how to do it right. Hey, don't stop petting me just because she's talking to you. That's right. Smooth. Not too deep. Caress the joints. Long strokes on the muscles. Hey, why are you crying? I love this.