homeopathie

I’ve been meaning to write about the vet for a while now, but broken legs and other things interposed. Earlier in the summer, Lucy woke up one morning with symptoms that could only entail Armageddon for a household that contained a pregnant person and a toddler. Poor Lucy, sad-faced under the best of circumstances, looked positively humiliated, ears and tail pointing straight downwards in misery. I made an immediate call to the vet around the corner.

I had been curious about this vet since we moved in – the office is in a corner of the same building where our good friends N and T live, as well as our regular babysitter, and it has charming lace curtains at the window with “Veterinaire” spelled out, apparently in masking tape, on one pane. The “homeopathie” treatment advertised on the doorplate has given me pause, as I wonder if our extremely lowbrow mutt isn’t exactly the sort of 16th arrondissement client for homeopathic veterinary medicine. But since it’s three minutes walk from our house, I had been keeping it in mind for emergencies just like this.

It turned out Mme. la veterinaire answers her own phone, is very nice, and suggested I come toute de suite as her first morning appointment was running late. She didn’t raise an eyebrow when I showed up with dog, baby, and stroller in tow, and even offered to help me get the stroller up the steps into the building. She directed me to sit down on one of several ice cream parlor style chairs arranged around the waiting room, which was painted the exact same pink as our vet at home, but didn’t smell as if a single dog or cat had ever crossed the threshold. We waited a couple of minutes until two young women came out of the examining room, empty-handed, and then Mme. came back out and ushered us in. She left the exam room door open so G. could supervise the proceedings from his stroller, and immediately coaxed Lucy onto an examining table that rose smoothly from floor to examining height on a hydraulic pump, just like at the garage. I was impressed and the dog was only mildly freaked out, which was a minor achievement considering her temperament.

I had actually checked the dictionary before even calling the vet to try to find some of the specific vocabulary I might need for the diagnosis – these symptoms not being traditionally included in a college French course, let alone polite conversation. Even so, once I promptly missed the softball of “how long has she been feeling this way?” the conversation quickly devolved into franglais – meaning that the doctor switched into perfect English while I vainly tried to continue answering in French without appearing rude. Whether this worked or not, the doctor was very patient, and at the end of the interchange said, “Now I going to give her an injection and then I will give you some medicine. Excuse me for just one moment.”

And then she bent over behind her desk to extract the limp body of a cat, which she deposited on the countertop behind us. She arranged its legs, leaned over its head for a minute, said “Bon,” and turned back to me. “Would you hold her head please?” she said. For one wild moment I thought she meant the cat, whose eyes were wide open in sedated bliss, and I hesitated. Then I noticed that she was holding Lucy’s collar, and I gratefully took her place. The cat just stayed on the countertop for the rest of the time we were in the office. The only other mention of its presence was when the doctor asked me to come back later for the paperwork – “I’m in a bit of a hurry, as I have two cats here.”

I don’t have any idea where the other one was (tucked in the closet?), but I think “I have two cats here,” is an excellent explanation for just about any set of circumstances. And Lucy has been right as rain ever since.