The Vet Visit and the Fear We Both Carry

It’s quiet in the car. My dog sits in the back, already too still. She can tell where we’re going before we turn the corner. It’s probably the route, or it could be something in my posture at the wheel. It could even be the tension rising in me as I see the parking lot come into view.

I’ve tried to tell myself I’m staying calm. I’m not.

In the waiting room, she pushes my leg. It’s not affection. It’s something else. Her ears are down, and her eyes are darting left and right at every door, every person, every sound. My dog doesn’t like the sound of the cat carrier that’s yowling on the bench across from us. She moves even closer to me.

I’ve put my hand on her head, and I think I’ve felt my hand become wet.

I think we have the same fear. She doesn’t understand why we’re here like I do, but she does know that it’s full of people who want to help. The fear of a needle or an exam is probably not worth the danger of what could happen. She knows I’m scared too.

I say her name softly, stroke the top of her head slowly, But my hand is trembling, and I wonder if my hand passing over causes more anxiety. I wonder if my hand pulse communicates to her: “I’m here for bad things.”

The vet tech beckons us from the examination room. My dog shies, and I feel traitorous when I persuade her to enter. She tries to conceal her one hundred twenty pound body by attempting to make herself as small as possible, tucking, and folding, behind my legs.

The vet is nice. She speaks softly, moves slowly, and my dog is subjected to numerous sniffs of the vet’s hand, but my dog’s anxiety is not alleviated by amiability. She calls out, and will be considered uninjured. The look my dog gives me is not a question. It’s a look of betrayal.

I brought her here because I love her, not because I want to injure her. This sort of care sometimes looks like discomfort, and protection fear. Yes, I want to bear this fear for her.

I can explain none of that’s what is really going on. So I begin to speak to her. I tell her she’s good, encouraged her with a pat on the back, she’s so good, even though good has nothing to do with it.

On the way home, the anxiety seems to fade for her. By the time we pull into the driveway, my dog is ecstatic. I think she forgives me, or maybe she’s forgotten about it. I wish I could say the same thing.

I try to smile, but it is not that easy. I sit in the parked car, and the tiny scream still resonates in my mind and chest. I wish I could have spared her.

But the suffering is part of the arrangement we have made. When we decide to let a dog into our life, we take the burden that comes with it. We take the fear of making decisions they won’t understand. We walk into the unknown with our pets. It is our love that brings us through the door.

She is almost in the house. She’s already at the front steps waiting for me to catch up.