We had his four years or fifty-thousand miles checkup and oil change today, and the jury is still out as to which part he detested more, the measuring and probing or the shots (three of them).
Judging by the drama, it was the measurements that got him. We wound up showing up an hour before the actual appointment because I couldn’t take his anticipatory dread anymore. Once he realized he wasn’t going to school he started freaking out. He had been told about the visit, but conveniently forgot about it (“At last – memory yields”).
Madge, by the way, was insistent that we tell him about the shots. She has a need to know, at all times, about everything. Mystery and surprise are her primal foes. She can ruin many a movie with this need. But she can also wind up her little brother by telling him things he doesn’t want to hear. And, when he ignores her, she makes sure he doesn’t. Somehow, though, we managed to make her keep quiet about the shots. Good thing, too, I think.
It’s really odd, how he dislikes getting undressed in order to be measured. In his four years I think his blood pressure has only been accurately taken once, his height maybe three times, his weight, never.
Oh, well. He got his shots and a toy and the pleasure or Madge’s company because she only had a half-day today.
Which, I guess, means that I have double-overtime.
I smell a raise.