28/11/2025
Today I aged ten years, but at least the dog is healthy.
If you have a normal sized dog, taking them to the vet is a chore. You put them in the car, you drive there, they whine a bit, you get a cookie, you go home.
When you own a Great Dane, taking them to the vet is not a chore. It is a tactical military operation that requires the strength of a powerlifter, the patience of a saint, and a complete lack of shame.
Meet Moose. Moose is 165 pounds of anxious pasta. He is a cow pattern throw rug who believes he is a delicate orchid. And today was his annual check up.
The drama started before we even left the house. Moose possesses a sixth sense. I didn't say the word "vet." I didn't touch his leash. I simply thought about the appointment while drinking my coffee, and Moose immediately sensed a disturbance in the Force. He engaged "Protocol: Invisibility."
Do you know how hard it is for a Great Dane to hide It’s like a giraffe trying to hide in a phone booth. I found him in the bathtub, curled into a ball, shaking so hard the shower curtain rings were jingling. He looked at me with betrayal in his eyes. "You wouldn't," his face said. "Not to me. Not to your sweet, baby boy."
Getting him into the SUV involved a lot of bribery (cheese) and physical shoving (glutes). We finally arrived at the clinic.
Now, the waiting room is where the real show begins. The automatic doors slid open, and I walked in with Moose. The room went silent. It always does. People stopped scrolling on their phones. A lady clutched her purse. A man instinctively pulled his legs in. It’s like walking into a saloon in an old Western movie, except the gunslinger is a giant, spotted do**us who is afraid of floor tiles.
We sat down. Moose, desperate for comfort, tried to crawl into my lap.
Let me remind you: I am sitting in a small, plastic waiting room chair. Moose is the size of a loveseat. He managed to get his front paws and his head onto my lap, leaving his enormous rear end and tail standing in the middle of the walkway. He buried his face in my neck, trembling.
"He's... very big," a woman next to us whispered. She was holding a carrier containing a very angry, very hissing cat.
Moose heard the hiss. He froze. He slowly turned his massive head toward the sound.
Now, you’d think a 165 pound apex predator would be unbothered by an 8 pound feline. You would be wrong. Moose decided that the cat was a demon sent to harvest his soul. He tried to climb higher up my body. I was suddenly wearing a scarf made of Great Dane.
"It's okay, Moose," I wheezed, crushed under the weight of his anxiety.
Then came the scale.
The vet tech called his name. "Moose"
Moose looked at her. He looked at the scale a cold, metal platform of doom. He refused to step on it. He went full "passive resistance." I pulled. The tech pulled. Moose stood there, rooted to the earth like an ancient oak tree, looking at the ceiling as if whistling a tune.
We finally compromised. He put his front paws on the scale, and I had to lift his back end like I was wheelbarrowing a bag of cement. The readout flickered. The tech wrote down the number. I think I slipped a disc.
In the exam room, the vet Dr. Chen, a wonderful woman who is about 5'2" came in. Moose loves Dr. Chen. He loves her so much that his tail started wagging.
Thwap. It hit the metal cabinet. Bang. It hit the trash can. Crash. It knocked over a jar of cotton balls.
"Hi buddy!" Dr. Chen said.
Moose, overcome with emotion, decided to lean on her. The "Dane Lean" is a sign of affection, but when the recipient is half the size of the dog, it’s a takedown maneuver. Dr. Chen had to brace herself against the wall to avoid being flattened like a cartoon character.
Then came The Shot.
Dr. Chen was a ninja. She pinched his skin, gave the vaccine, and was done in two seconds. Moose didn't even feel it. But then, he saw the syringe in her hand after the fact.
The drama. The absolute Academy Award winning performance.
He let out a sound that wasn't a bark or a whine. It was a "Woooo wuh wuh wuh" that sounded like a ghost falling down a flight of stairs. He looked at the injection site. He looked at me. He lifted his paw dramatically as if to say, "Mother, I have been slain. Tell my story."
He spent the rest of the appointment with his head buried in the corner of the room, refusing to look at the traitorous Dr. Chen, only accepting treats with an air of deep, wounded dignity.
We are home now. The ordeal is over. Moose is currently asleep on the sofa and by "on the sofa," I mean he is taking up all three cushions while I am perched on the armrest. He is twitching in his sleep, probably chasing brave dreams where he isn't afraid of floor tiles or hissing cats.
I’m watching him sleep, listening to those heavy, rhythmic snores that shake the room. My back hurts from lifting him. My shirt is covered in slobber. My wallet is lighter.
But then he shifts, stretches out those long, goofy legs, and lets out a happy sigh.
Great Danes are heartbreak wrapped in fur. They are too big for this world, and they don’t live nearly long enough, and they break everything you own. But looking at this giant, peaceful lug, I realize I’d carry him onto that scale every single day if I had to. I’d fight every scary cat for him.
Because when you have a heart that big living in your house, you don't mind that there's no room left on the couch for you.
(But seriously, send ibuprofen. My back is wrecked.)
