VISITING THE DOCTOR

Dear Spike:

Your mother's plan was pure genius.

For as long as you've been able to sit upright, you've been terrified of the doctor's office. Just as soon as you see Nurse Tara — the one who give the shots — you start looking for the exits.

In most situations, you're a pretty cool cat. But every time Tara asks us to strip you down to be weighed, you go a bit bonkers.

You cry.

You squirm.

You scream.

It's all really sort of embarrassing.

So with your second birthday approaching — and your two-year check-up impending — your mother had one of those lightbulb-above-the-head moments. She hopped online and found a bag of toy doctor equipment. Then, figuring that you wouldn't be satisfied with a plastic toy stethoscope, she found you the real thing. She also picked up two books about visiting the doctor.

By the time your appointment came round, you were ready. Doctor's bag in hand, you marched into the office as if you were making a house call.

And then you saw Tara.

You cried.

You squirmed.

You screamed.

But by the time Dr. Schrwiever arrived on the scene, we'd calmed you down a bit. And you were more than happy to let her check your vitals — a stark improvement from our last visit, when the poor doctor had to leave the room for a bit for fear of sending you into complete hysterics. You were eager to let her listen to your breathing and check out your eyes, ears and throat. And we were proud as pup when the doctor showed us that you had shot up in weight a bit — enough so that you were finally actually on the chart! (Albeit hugging the bottom line.)

When Tara returned — with a shot, I'm sad to say — you once again flew into a rage. But you recovered nicely, afterward, even if, for the next two days, you complained that "Tara hurt me." (We keep insisting to you that she was simply doing what your parents asked her to do, but you're not buying it.)

All told, though, your mother's plan worked rather well. You don't like getting shots (who does?) but you kept your cool for most of the appointment, which is all we could have hoped for.

Meanwhile, your "check up gear" have fast become your favorite playthings. And it's probably worth noting that you look stellar with a stethoscope dangling from your ears.

You bedside manner does leave a little something to be desired. ("You are very, very, very, very sick," I heard you tell one of your stuffed animal patients this morning.)

But nobody's perfect.

Love,
dad