The phone is ringing this morning. My colleague and I are unable to complete the consultations within the time limit. The assistants work under pressure. No time for jokes now.
My next client is an expat, a young man with a pug. I try to quickly estimate to what extent they will increase the workload. Expats are usually looking for the best care for their pet. However, the pug belongs to the weakest breeds: shortness of breath, allergy, eye infections, ear infections and may no longer be bred in the Netherlands. When he enters, he carries the dog on his arm and holds it close to him. I know roughly what to expect.
piece of paper
He greets me in a soft voice, carefully places the dog on the treatment table and takes out a piece of paper. I’ve seen hundreds of these papers. They are written by owners who want to discuss all the details of their pet’s health. And don’t want to forget anything.
He calmly reads out the dog’s health problems. The dog is still young, but the list is endless. As I listen politely, behind the man I see the busyness in practice taking on disturbing forms. Passing assistants look at me with looks that say: with all your experience, this should really be faster. Do you really want things to get completely out of hand here?
The problems the man keeps listing are approaching the limit of my mental storage capacity. I call an assistant, who looks up disturbed from a screen. “Can you take the anamnesis for me?” I ask.
She goes to the nearest table with pen and paper and looks at me expectantly.
The problems the man keeps listing are approaching the limit of my mental storage capacity
“Continue please,” I tell the man.
“He masturbates four to five times a day,” he says with an impassive face.
I take a deep breath. “Masturbates four to five times a day,” I dictate.
The assistant looks at me in surprise, trying to assess whether I am joking.
“Masturbates four to five times a day,” I repeat with a thin smile.
The man nods. We have come to the end of the problem list.
“The masturbating… Is this a problem for you?” I ask.
“No.”
“Because for the dog this is not a problem.” I can’t think of anything that sounds smarter or more medical. Out of the corner of my eye I see my assistant smiling.
“Of course not”, the man replies and laughs. The dog wags its tail and jumps up at its owner.
For a moment there is no problem, no diagnosis, no treatment, no cost and the pug is just an ordinary dog with a little too much testosterone.
“It’s no problem,” I say to the assistant. She nods thoughtfully and continues writing.
From the waiting room you can hear the barking of dogs that want to attack each other. I quickly list what I have to offer the pug for his real problems: diet, nutritional supplements, and medication. The owner is willing to try anything.