Every fall, I haul Hank and Lucy to our favorite vet in Albuquerque for their annual check-ups.
(George and Alan, hardy little creatures that they are, go every two years.)
We originally planned to go in mid-September, when ranchsitter Danni was here.
She had accompanied me on this adventure once before, so who better to help me again?
Alas, I didn't have the fortitude to go through with it then, so I cancelled the appointment.
Then a few weeks ago, while ranchsitter Denise was still here, I rescheduled the appointment.
She had also accompanied me a previous year, and I knew she could talk me off the ledge if things went south.
Alas, they did – the day before the appointment when I discovered that a few of the trailer floor boards had to be replaced.
Anyway, I rescheduled the appointment for the third time yesterday. And you know what? We made it.
I credit my 48 hours (ok, maybe more) of fretting over every possible horrible thing that could go wrong
with the reason nothing went wrong. There is something about hauling my precious cargo
in a glorified tin can down the bumpy dirt road, then to town, that simply terrifies me.
I'm sure I said something similar last year when I blogged about the trip,
and the year before that, and the year before that. Some things will never change.
Yesterday, Lucy cowgirled up and went inside the clinic for the first time.
On previous visits she was ... shall we say, less than willing?
She may not look too happy, but she was a very good girl and earned many peppermints from the techs.
Her favorite part of the adventure was flirting with the drivers of the vehicles behind us.