Stabbed.

Or rather, jabbed.

I was at the vet this morning with my totally spastic Pug for her annual physical. In the commotion of having three people attempting to settle the little spaz-mo onto the steel table so the doctor could do her thing, said doctor plunged the needle, not into the furry beast, but me! I didn't know it was a clean needle, rather than one filled with some dog vaccine until the doctor started talking to the dog, in baby talk no less, that "luckily it was a clean needle" and "I don't think mommy liked that".

My dog is okay. She's kind of cute in a I've-stolen-Winston-Churchill's-face kind of way. And she actually seems rather smart, for a designer dog who snorts constantly and looks earnestly and quizzically at you when you say "NO - Get down from the Noguchi Table, you beast!" However, under no circumstances do I wish to be referred to as her "mommy". As if the stabbing weren't insulting enough.

For a mere $276.36 and an errant poke with a needle, I found out that Izzy "looked great" by the way (and the doctor hasn't even seen her in her boa). A small price to pay for the hours of dress up afforded to the small human in the family for whom I wear the name "mommy" happily.