Today I took my dog to the vet, and he's in good health.

It was a follow-up to see how he responded to last week's visit that was prompted by fear and uncertainty. He'd been shaking his head a lot, which I took to be sign of an ear infection, but his total disinterest in sniffing the results of my cleaning his ear had me puzzled. With my other dogs, they were fascinated by how the dark streaks on the napkins smelled, something I could only help to sense.

Turns out he had an infection, which has been mostly fixed.

He'd also been panting a great deal, running out of breath, and his jaw sometimes clicks or pops. I think those are all just normal aging things now, and the vet reminded me that he's like a seventy year old man.

The visits, as always, are nearly as entertaining for me as they are a mystery to him. I got to hear one of the office staff read off a list of about a dozen cat names to one of the clients to determine which of them were still around. The answer was eight.

I think eight is a very large number of cats to have.

Today's visit also featured a truly sad and disturbing black lab whose fur was shaved to the skin in three or four places and who had more stitches on her right hip than I've had in my entire life. One of the other people waiting and I talked about it quietly, and we were both reluctant to ask the dog's owner what had happened. The two of us felt the dog, maybe, had been hit by a car or something, but we were afraid of bringing up the subject because it might create a whole host of issues, including highly emotional responses by the owner.

I like looking at the other owner's brand new puppies and am always happy to be sniffed.