I was working as a receptionist at a vet clinic to pay my way through my degree in Graphic Design. I was in my last semester of the program and beginning to accept freelance work in my free time. My boss knew this and approached me with some work.

Client: “Hey, we need a flyer for an upcoming event. Can you whip something up? Here’s the information.”

Me: “I can’t really do this here; all we have on these computers is Word.”

Client: “Why don’t you use your designer programs? We need something eye-catching!”

Me: “Just to be clear, you’re asking me to use programs that I pay for out of my pocket, on my personal laptop that I also paid for, during work hours, at a job where I was not hired for my skills as a graphic designer, to create a professionally designed product for you, with no increase in my hourly rate? I’m sorry, but no. If you would like, we can certainly discuss my freelance rates after hours. I charge $25 an hour, and I estimate that a flyer of this type would take two to three hours.”

Client: “Seriously? That’s way too much for a simple flyer! Isn’t there, like, a friends and family discount?

Me: “No.”

He was silent for a moment and then went back to his office. He later made his own version of the flyer using Word, using about five conflicting fonts in various colors.

This encounter was pretty typical of the culture there, and I quit two weeks later.

I work in a vet’s office during a time when masks are mandatory if you’re unvaccinated. I am arguing with one of our clients at the front door. She’s standing there with her dog, pressing the doorbell, but I am not opening the door until she puts on a mask or provides proof of vaccination.

Client: “I am not putting on anything of the sort! It’s a violation of my rights as an American, and you can’t make me!”

Me: “You’re absolutely right that I can’t make you, but that doesn’t mean I have to let you in either. Mask up or walk away.”

Client: “So, you’re forcing us to either get that vaccine that’s full of lies from the government, or wear a mask and become one of the sheep? No, thank you!”

Me: “Then you can come back when you’re willing to do either.”

Client: “But what about my poor dog?! He’s just a puppy!”

I quickly glance at the appointment notes to make sure I am not turning away an emergency. I have to stop and smirk at why she’s here.

Me: “Ma’am, you’re here to get shots for your dog?”

Client: “F*** yeah, I am! I don’t want it to get sick!” 

Related:
You Can’t Vaccinate Against Stupid, Part 4
You Can’t Vaccinate Against Stupid, Part 3
You Can’t Vaccinate Against Stupid, Part 2
You Can’t Vaccinate Against Stupid

I worked as a ward assistant at a teaching veterinary hospital. Some of the vet students were incredibly book-smart but had never developed any common sense. Then, there was this student.

I was refilling the treatment trolleys in the open-plan treatment area while one of the vet students was cleaning up after a procedure. One of the residents came through making clicking, whistling, and just generally encouraging noises to the very large dog she was leading. 

Student: “Why are you whistling? It’s not a horse.”

Resident: “Oh, he’s blind.”

Student: “Ahhh! He can’t hear you.”

I answer my department’s phone.

Me: “Radiology.”

Caller: “I’m looking for my test results. It’s [Caller].”

Me: “I can’t find the results using that name. It might be easier if I use the name of the animal.”

Caller: “What animal? I’m asking about my wife’s test!”

Me: “Sir, this is a veterinary hospital.”

Caller: “What are you trying to say? I dialed the wrong number?!”

Me: “I hope so. If this is the right number, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police.”

The vet clinic we go to hired a new urgent care vet. He is easily one of the best vets we’ve ever worked with and is extremely knowledgeable. He also is on the spectrum and very open about this. He’s said some true gems during our dogs’ visits, but this one is by far my favorite.

I’m bringing our dog in for what we suspect is kennel cough. Due to its highly infectious nature, we wait in the car until the vet comes to get us. When he does, he walks us around to the back door of the practice and into an isolation room. It’s very small, with no windows, and even with only two of us and my dog, it feels tiny.

Vet: “You know, the other vets don’t really like these rooms; they say they feel claustrophobic. I don’t think so. I think they feel cozy. It reminds me of the shipping container house the government had me live in for a while.”

As this takes me a moment to register, all I can get out is:

Me: “Umm, why did they have you do that?”

Vet: “Oh, this was back during the anthrax scare. I worked at a lab that studied it and had anthrax, and I was one of two people with a key to where we stored it. So, the government thought I was one of the people who sent it, so they isolated me in a shipping container house until things settled down. I didn’t mind it, though. It was a nice break from everything.”

With this, he starts to examine my dog, but then he pauses and says:

Vet: “It wasn’t me, obviously. They let me go once they figured that out, and obviously, they wouldn’t have let me become a vet if I was a domestic terrorist!”

Then, he went back to checking my dog.

I’ve been back twice since then, and while I have a million questions for him, I haven’t worked up the courage to ask!