I took Rascal to the vet today, and they were ready for him. Back when he was a puppy he loved the vet and the vet techs loved him—he was cute and as easy a dog to deal with as you could ever want—but all that changed within the past year when they had to clip his nails and, um, poke things up his butt. In both procedures he squirmed and thrashed around and growled and snapped, to the extent that he needed a muzzle and two or three techs to hold him down. There must be a note in his records about it now, because this time they put the muzzle on him first thing. Poor little guy. And poor nurses, too. But this time there wasn't any problems, and after they had finished squirting a vaccine up his nose they gave him treats and told him they still thought he was a good dog. He is. But he was nevertheless glad to get out of that office, and they were glad to have him gone. And now we don't need to go back until November.