First Vet Visit

I scooped Hardy into my arms, hugging him tightly to my chest. “You sure gave me a scare,” I said, checking him for injuries. All I could see was a bit of road rash on his knee. I felt relieved, but I thought the driver who had returned my dog to me was correct. It was time for my pet to be thoroughly checked out by a professional.

I wanted to establish a relationship with a good veterinarian, and not really knowing where to turn, I went back to the animal shelter where Hardy was adopted to ask them for a recommendation. It just so happened that the volunteer who had helped us back when Hardy was a temporary occupant was happy to oblige. He was thrilled to discover that we had been successful in our endeavor to adopt our preferred shelter dog, and thought the name, Hardy, was fitting. When I told him about my need to locate a good veterinarian, he recommended Dr. Warren, who I called immediately.

Dr. Warren was able to see us that same day. By the time we arrived, I was sure Hardy was perfectly fine from our earlier debacle. So when we got there, I had found that my expectations had shifted a little. Instead of wishing for Hardy’s clean bill of health, I was hoping our visit would shed light onto many of the mysteries that came home with Hardy due to adoption. For example, I really wished to know how old he was, and I thought an educated guess from the vet would be helpful.

One of the most interesting aspects of a pet adoption is the lack of history. Things that puppy owners take for granted like knowing the birth date, prior diet, shot records, and such, become speculation. Deduction and observation become ways to fill in missing information. As I drove to the vet office, I found my imagination filling in a history for Hardy that established the young businessman at the shelter as his prior owner. I had decided that he and his wife had owned a Miniature Schnauzer – Hardy. I imagined that he had simply escaped from them one day, exactly like he had done to me. I had decided that he and his wife both led busy lives, and they were likely bound by time constraints that kept either one from being able to chase after him the day he ran away. I had also decided what they really wanted was a baby, not a Pug.

As we got out of my parked car, leading Hardy towards Dr. Warren’s office, I could see that Hardy’s anxiety level had increased dramatically. Hardy sniffed the ground outside, and looked at me with eyes of dread. He did not like that place at all. How did I know? His body posture had changed from upright to slumped, and his nub of a tail was tucked as far down as it could go. He was not relaxed, but stiff, and he refused to sit on my lap or allow me to pet him. He opted to sit underneath the bench seats that were in the waiting room of the vet’s office, crouching low, almost hidden.
         It became time for our appointment. There were so many questions I had for the vet, but they all seemed to vanish, as I focused on getting Hardy into the examination room. It was as if I was dragging a freshly cut Christmas tree through the hallway. I made a mental note to bring treats next time. I picked him up and set him on the exam room table. The assistant spoke softly and moved slowly, stroking his coat in an attempt to help him cope, but he could not yield. He became more restless, shuddering and panting. I helped her weigh him, take his temperature, and check his heart rate, but he didn’t stop shuddering the entire time. She wrote down the acquired information, and left the room.