July 17th, 2006

Monday. Tachina is a ten-year-old Boston terrier with enough energy to power a small city—so says her mother, and she should know. I have never met a dog that evokes the Tazmanian Devil quite like she does.

Tachina's owners have to bring her in a crate so she doesn’t run circles around everyone in the waiting room.

I feel like a tree in a hurricane as she jumps all over me during the physical exam—nigh impossible to perform for all the licking and jumping and twirling going on. She’s a trip. But it’s not funny. This dog is really upset. In medical terms: she’s totally freaked out.

After Tachina's off the table and busy scurrying about the room, her mother and I have a conversation about her anxiety level. She assures me Tachina's just fine when she’s at home: until it rains or thunders or roofers are working or fireworks are going off or the UPS truck pulls up or she has a party or…

I take out my prescription pad and we discuss pharmacological therapy for situational anxiety. She finally goes home with ten pills she can try during severe thunderstorms and when Tachina comes to visit me for her dentistry next week.

Poor thing. She’s one in a million…actually, make that one in a hundred.