Veterinarians according to Watson

According to the vet, my dog Watson is a senior, so he now has to get a physical about 256 times a year.

I’m not a fan of physicals. I have never been. When the doctor says, “Alex, your physical is coming up!” I answer, “Who’s Alex?”

That’s when the physician mutters something suspiciously like “Premature dementia — or bad sense of humor.”

If the vet told Watson he had a bad sense of humor, he (not the vet) would wag his tail.

If the vet told him he’d have to take pills the size of Jolly Ranchers, he would wag his tail.

If the vet told him anything, he’d wag his tail. He’s not exactly the brightest bulb on the tree.

To Watson, every vet visit is an adventure. The minute I open the car door, he lunges for the open road.

Then I have to chase him down, because I do not intend to get to the vet on foot, no matter what my dog wants.

The moment I get Watson out of the wide open spaces and into the narrow confines of our oversized-but-tiny-inside Toyota, he barks.

Okay, that sentence doesn’t look impressive enough. What I meant to say was, he BARKS!

Every sound that issues from his mouth is followed by a little sonic boom. If other drivers honk at me, I can’t hear them.

They’re not barks of terror or anything. Watson just can’t hold in his excitement.

Whereas other dogs stick their heads out of the car windows and flick drops of saliva into the faces of the people in convertibles, my dog is happiest having the windows closed and the volume way, way up.

At last, the moment arrives. I double-park by the veterinary building, open the back door, and proceed to be trampled by a one-dog army as Watson surges to see the vet.

I don’t understand his devotion to her. I mean, I’m the one who feeds, walks, and brushes him.

All she does is give him a Milk-Bone from time to time, usually when he sits on command. Which is something I taught him, by the way.

That ungrateful mutt — I mean, purebred golden retriever — doesn’t even share.

But before Watson covers the vet with a layer of saliva (his way of saying “I love you! Yes, I do! Yes, indeedy, oh boy, I do!”), he has to make it past the reception desk.

The lady there is so stern that she can cow any dog into submission. The waiting room is the one place where Watson sits quietly.

Once he tried barking, and the receptionist gave him a stare that shut him up in an instant.

Forget dog whisperers. This lady worked in silence. I presume she just mind-melded with my dog and turned off the switch that says “bark.”

I tried doing a mind-meld with my dog while I was eating dinner, and all he did was drool over my lap. While barking.

The vet visit itself never takes longer than 15 minutes. I know because I time it. Without fail, by the time Watson reaches his 117th bark of the day, we get booted out.

Watson isn’t sad to leave. He knows he’ll be back within six months. And after all, for him, every vet visit is an adventure.

I wish I could treat my visits to the doctor with the same spirit. But somehow, I don’t think my doc would ever give me a Milk-Bone, even if I sat on command.

Maybe I should try barking.