CONTENT WARNING: Pet Cancer

We’ve had sled dogs for the past twenty years. We use them for pulling and carrying to fulfill their needs but keep them as family pets. At most, we’ve had five dogs. Now we only have one left: Gamlemor. She’s turning thirteen this March. As responsible pet owners, we visit our veterinarian at least once a year — twice a year after they turn ten.

Being a senior dog, Gamlemor is starting to get some “extra” issues as most beings do when getting old. Off to the vet we go, same as always. We’ve used this practice for eighteen years now, and we adore our veterinarian.

He’s got a good size office, with many employees with this very same type of dedication.

I take “Gamlemor” in for itchy ears and a lump on her chest. I think she needs an ear flush for the itch and the lump is just “another lump of fat”. (She’s had a few over the years.)

However, this time, her ear has some deformation and the lump is cancerous. And checking her ears, they notice that a few of her teeth need to come out, as well.

I am very emotional at the moment, so there are probably some variations to the wording. Here’s approximately how this conversation went.

Vet: “The tumor is out, and we are quite sure we got all of it plus some good margins. But she’s an old girl, so belly rubs need to happen every day and you need to be thorough.”

Me: “She already gets them. I just can’t believe we missed this.”

Vet: “Thorough?”

Me: *Through sobs* “Obviously not.”

Vet: “Now, I’ve booked a date for removing the bad teeth, but I’m more concerned about her inner ear. And we need to be clear about what to expect. This is calcification or cancer. This is serious. A CT will tell us more about where it is, but there’s not a lot to do about it.”

Me: “Okay. Is she in pain? What options are there?”

Vet: “It’s not what you want to hear, but Gamlemor is not comfortable. She’s not showing it, but her teeth alone would cause a bit of pain and the ear makes her itchy and dizzy. I’d recommend managing her condition depending on the CT. And there’s an option to remove the inner ear, but it’s extremely painful.”

Me: “Okay!” *Sobs* “What does ‘managing’ mean? Why not operate? The pain is temporary, right? How much is it? Can you do it?”

Vet: “‘Managing’ is medication. I’ll tell you the price for dental care. But… it’s my job to inform you that there are options. I can do the operation, but I won’t. I won’t subject Gamlemor to this at her age. It’s a lot of pain for two to four weeks, and there’s a chance it won’t heal well or at all. And with her age and sensitivity, it’s not an option in my opinion. There are other practices that will take care of this if you absolutely have to, but try to ask why before doing anything. Is it for Gamlemor or yourself?”

Me: *Ugly crying* “You’re such an a**hole, sometimes. You know that?”

Vet: “Yes, but you know this, too: I do business with you because you pay your dues. I like you because you listen and you care about your animals. But I love Gamlemor. Here, take this.” *Hands me a tissue* “And take a moment. I’ll print your appointment and put together an invoice for dental care.”

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we keep coming back. This vet is autistic. He’s not great with people. But he’s honest, direct, and hard-working. And he loves his job because he loves animals. When we show up with our pets, this practice is their voice of reason when we’re upset or not thinking straight.

When we visit, they greet our pets the way their personalities preferred it, and then they greet us. “Do you want something to drink? Great, I’ll bring your human something, too.”

A veterinarian nurse said on our second visit, “You’re the wallet; this is the patient,” while rubbing Oscar’s belly with both hands.

Gamlemor is now on medication for arthritis, inflammation, and pain relief. She’s comfortable, playful, and happy. We might be able to keep her around for a few months still, a year if we’re lucky. She’s on follow-ups every two months — something we asked for, so Gamlemor has her advocate when it’s time for her to go, but forever.

My mother told me that her mother believed that women’s abdominal muscles were not strong enough to support their organs, and foundation garments were a necessity. This was a self-fulfilling prophecy; she had eight children and always wore a girdle, so her core muscles would have atrophied, “proving” her belief was true. I imagine her back would ache just standing for a few minutes without foundations.

Forty years later, I am sitting with some friends at university. Several of my friends are doing post-graduate studies. One in particular is a qualified, working pharmacist, so she’s a woman of the world who has studied human anatomy.

Another friend arrives, so I make my excuses to the group, saying we are going to an exercise class together.

The pharmacist looks at me very seriously and gives me a stern warning.

Pharmacist: “Be careful doing core work. If your abs get too strong, they can crush your internal organs!”

It struck me at first as two vastly different beliefs, but later, I saw that they were two sides of the same coin; women’s bodies are unreliable and dangerous, and women’s instincts can’t be trusted but must rely on (male) science to be well.

CONTENT WARNING: Eating Disorders

A woman comes in to buy a coffee, pays, goes and sits down with her drink, and takes out a book. No problem. A few other people start to come in to get English breakfasts and sit down to eat. I’d say we’re at about half capacity at this point.

The first woman looks around, slams her book shut, and comes up to the counter.

Customer: “Get rid of these. All of these. I can’t deal.”

Me: “Not sure what you mean. Get rid of what?”

Customer: “The people! The food!”

Her voice is rising in volume.

Customer: “All those fat slobs stuffing their faces is triggering my eating disorder!”

Me: “Please lower your voice. I can’t kick people out for eating food!”

Customer: “No, the thin ones are okay. I just can’t bear seeing fat people eating unhealthy food. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to get rid of them.”

Me: “No.”

Customer: “Do you want me to starve myself and die?!“

She doesn’t know, and I don’t tell her, but twenty years ago, I nearly died from anorexia. I really don’t want to be in this conversation anymore, especially since I’m overweight and she’s glaring at me like she’s about to give me grief for that, too.

Me: “Look, just go. If seeing people eat food is triggering, then maybe a coffee shop isn’t a good place for you? I’ll put your coffee in a to-go cup.”

Customer: “No, I’ve got a right to be here. You have to accommodate me, or else I’ll die.”

Thankfully, at this point, my manager came over and quietly told her to go before shopping centre security arrived because she was being offensive to other customers. And apparently, the threat of security was enough to get her to just leave. I left early that day, half shaken from the whole fatphobia thing and half shaking with rage that I didn’t have telekinesis that could have punted her out the door the instant she started up.

Our store is the only real full-sized grocery store in a little town. We have just had a tornado warning. It thankfully passed without incident, but it was enough to cause a slight panic attack in one of my coworkers who has some tornado-related PTSD.

A customer is emerging from the shelter with the rest of us and notices the coworker gaining control of her breathing.

Customer: “What’s wrong with her? She was helping me before we had to waste our time! I need her back on her feet.”

Me: “Sorry, sir, she just needs a moment. I’ll be happy to take over your transaction for you.”

Customer: “But what is wrong with her?”

Me: “Nothing, sir, she’s just a bit shaken from the tornado warning.”

Customer: “Ugh… all these people have something these days! Everyone has ADHD because they’re too lazy to concentrate! Everyone is autistic because they’re too scared to talk to people! Everyone has depression this and is triggered by that! If all these people are too weak to actually live, then let them all kill themselves and we can filter them out of the gene pool!”

Me: “Sir… first of all… wow. Secondly, if you genuinely believe even one word of what you just said, then we’re done here. Leave, now. I won’t ask again. You’re banned.”

Customer: “But this is the only store in town! You can’t ban me!”

Me: “I can, and I have. If it makes you sad, well then boo-hoo. Go and be depressed about it.”

He gave me a middle finger and stormed out. He’s tried to sneak back in twice, but we all know him — little town, remember — and tell him to leave.

A local grocery store has been having trouble with cart thefts. They bought a new cart-lock system that automatically locks the tires of the carts if the carts get too far from the store.

They didn’t tell any of the customers, though. I was one of those customers.

You know how you can stand on the bottom platform of a cart and hold onto the handlebars while someone else pushes the cart?

My daughter was standing on the cart like that, and I was pushing it. We were inside the store, but the tires abruptly locked. My daughter was thrown into the basket, and I went a**e-over-tea-kettle face first into the basket myself.

Both of us were mostly fine! We did go to the doctor, and my daughter was unharmed, whereas I picked up a scratch on my cheek that needed three stitches.

The employees then told me about the locking wheel system. They didn’t know why, but at that part of the store, carts have been regularly and unexpectedly locking… and the way the system is set up, they don’t unlock easily. The employees have to bring them to a back room to unlock them.

They’re hoping my accident — and the resulting payout by the store’s insurance — will convince the owner to scrap the cart-locking program, because it’s apparently very inconvenient.