I thought the transition from veterinary practice to working with bipedal animals would be difficult. It really wasn’t all that hard. Here’s what I’ve learned:

When I’m pushing a patient on a gurney, if I slip and refer to the end opposite the head as the “tail end,” it gets big laughs. Unless the patient has a vestigial tail. Those folks can be a bit prickly.

Obedient patients appreciate being patted on the head and asked, “Who’s a good boy?” or “Who’s a good girl?”

Nowadays, everyone can use more exercise, but nobody actually wants to do it. I have a technologist leash patients up for a walk in the courtyard several times a day. If a patient is fearful of the outdoors, I give them an indoor workout with my laser pointer. They cannot resist chasing that darting target.

To get a patient to take a pill, I first pry open their mouth and push the pill to the back of their tongue. Then, I hold their mouth shut and blow in their face to get them to swallow.

If I worry that a patient will lick their wound, I put an Elizabethan collar on them, with a warning to be wary of narrow doorways. I’ve been extremely pleased with how well they behave once they have a “plastic cone of shame” around their neck.

If a patient has rolled around on a dead skunk, I have them bathed in tomato juice and placed in a cage with an industrial blow dryer for an hour. Then I throw away their clothes.

When a patient won’t volunteer a urine sample, I discreetly follow them on one of their courtyard walks. As the unsuspecting person starts to pee in their favorite spot, I swoop in to catch a midstream specimen.

Anytime someone accompanying the patient tells me not to worry, “They don’t bite,” I know better. Those are always the ones that bite. That’s why I keep a Hannibal Lecter face muzzle within reach.

I always have one pocket of my lab coat filled with bite-sized Snickers. When my hand moves toward that pocket, patients know they’re in for a treat. The ones with vestigial tails even wag.

If a patient makes a doodie on the floor right in front of me, I push their nose in it and say, “NO. We don’t go boom-boom indoors.” If the dookie is there when I come into the room, there’s no point in scolding them, they’ve already forgotten they did it.

When the end is near, I tell my patients to do two things. One: Take the vacation they’ve been putting off. And, two: Don’t buy the fifty-pound bag of dog food.