Something else to worry about!

First I lost my dear old cat, Joey.  Then I got the disappointing -- though not imminently fatal -- news about sweet little Connie. Today was Reynaldo's turn at the vet.

He was very agitated before we even left the house. I attributed this to his having to fast -- no food after midnight because he was having bloodwork done. He was angry in the car, which surprised me because travel has never bothered him before. While waiting our turn in the vet's waiting room, he started to chill and so I took him out of the carrier.

He was tense, of course. His entire body felt like one lean, taut muscle in my arms. But that was because of all the new views and smells. When a woman came in with a poodle mix -- a rather old dog with a bloody paw -- I decided to put Rey back in the carrier. He was fine with the dog, but the dog, who was already in some degree of discomfort, seemed way too interested in him and I was afraid something sudden and claw-driven might go down. So I put Rey back in the carrier. At which time he hissed at me.

He hissed at me! This has never happened in our 12 years together!

Do not be fooled.

And that, folks, was only the beginning. In the waiting room, the veterinary assistant got a loud purr when he put Rey on the scale. (The skinny beige demon weighs just over 7 lbs.; same as last year and the year before.) Rey merrily flipped back and forth on the table like a fish on the bottom of a boat, giving the assistant two sides to pet. I thought the whole exam would go well.

Ha!

Reynaldo, who lets me do whatever I wish to him whenever I wish to do it, suddenly took umbrage. How dare the vet open his mouth and check his teeth! This procedure was met by wrigglings and low gutteral mutterings.

Then came the vaccinations. Rey has been getting shots, without hardly noticing, for more than a decade now. This morning he acted as though an evil knight was running a sabre through him. They took him back to draw blood and after a few minutes, the vet assistant came back empty handed.

"He really doesn't like this," the assistant said, taking Rey's carrier back with him, thinking it would be a good way to both restrain and comfort him.

When the vet himself brought Reynaldo back, he was covered in beige fur. "Fire. Cracker." Those were his words as he placed the carrier in my hands.

We chatted for a few minutes, more about Connie than about Reynaldo. He's a very nice man, new to the practice, and very sensitive to my concerns. He reiterated that Connie is fine right now, and with careful care she can remain fine for a long time to come. He says that Reynaldo's vitals are all strong, his eyes and teeth and gums look good, and we have no reason to believe that his bad behavior was do to any more than Rey being, "hangry."

I'm not so sure. This aggressive and angry behavior is not like my little man. Active, yes. Hell, manic is his customary mode. But not angry. I hope it doesn't mean that something is wrong. I wish it didn't take 48 hours to get bloodwork back!

Let's revisit this post from two weeks ago: As I was settling our bill at the front desk, one of the vet techs -- the one who actually drew Connie's blood -- came over to tell me what a sweet and special little girl she is. Finding a usable vein was a little harder and took a little longer than was customary, but during the process Connie maintained eye contact with the tech and kept on purring. "I thought, 'this is one I want to take home!'" the tech enthused about my gentle and trusting girl.

The tech remained invisible and in the back room as I was settling Reynaldo's bill.