Sunday, September 18, 2011
A Strange Day at the Vet's Office
LITTLE GIRL: I hope so. That “Price is Right” guy said we should do this to Mittens. He wouldn’t lie, would he? I don’t want Mittens to go to Kitty Heaven.
DR. FOSTER: Haha…he’ll be fine, honey. I’ve been a vet for over ten years. And I’ve never lost a doggie or a kitty to such an operation. Tell you what…go sit with your mommy over there and we’ll bring you a lollypop while you wait. Okay?
LITTLE GIRL: Yay!
DR. FOSTER: Haha…all right. Okay, what’s next today?
/vet’s office doors fly open
DR. FOSTER: Stat? You think this is TV, pal? What’s going on?
DOMBROWSKI: Look, Doc. I’m a very busy man. And I can’t deal with this anymore. I have sunk almost sixty-five million dollars (seriously, folks) into this critter since 2004. And that’s not even counting the medical bills. He was good for a while, but I can’t deal with this shit anymore. Not with the stressful couple weeks ahead of me. Please, Doc. Put him down.
DR. FOSTER: Who is “he”?
DOMBROWSKI: Have you ever treated a Tiger, Doc?
DR. FOSTER: A tiger? Oh, my.
DOMBROWSKI: Answer me! I have plenty of money…
/dumps $1 million on table
DR. FOSTER: Oh, my. Well, no, I haven’t worked with tigers. But they are like most cats, I guess. They can live 10-20 years. How old is your specimen?
DOMBROWSKI: This one’s thirty-five. Put him out of his, and my, misery.
DR. FOSTER: Good lord! A thirty-five year old tiger? That’s unheard of. Please, bring him in, immediately! I have to see this.
DR. FOSTER: Um…sir? You can’t be serious.
DOMBROWSKI: I’d shoot the bastard myself, but I’m an important man. Look. No one will know but us. He won’t be missed. People disappear where he comes from all the time. Just give him the shot and I’ll help you toss him in the furnace.
DR. FOSTER: Um…what is your name, sir?
DOMBROWSKI: Dav…um, Randy. Randy Smith.
DR. FOSTER: Well, Mr. Smith, this is obviously a man in a tiger suit. What is going on here?
DOMBROWSKI: He’s a Tiger. Capital T. And his knees are shot. His arms are shot. He has bad ribs, fingers, toes, and, well, you name it. Today, he had to leave a game when he hurt himself walking on the field. I can’t take this. Not now. We just won the fucking division and he’s going to eat a roster spot only to get hurt eating his goddamn lunch. You’re my only hope, Doc. Set him FREE!
DR. FOSTER: This is ridiculous…
/takes Tiger head off man
DOMBROWSKI: We’re at the doctor, Carlos. We’re gonna make you, um, better, right Doc?
GUILLEN: You say we get ice cream.
DOMBROWSKI: We will…we will. The doctor has to give you a shot first, Carlos. Point where you hurt yourself today.
GUILLEN: (points to calf) Here.
/bone in finger snaps
DOMBROWSKI: See? Please, Doc? Do you like pizza? I can offer you a lifetime supply of Little Caesars on top of the cash there.
DR. FOSTER: Please. I’d rather eat dog food. I’m sorry. I can’t be a part of this. I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave.
DOMBROWSKI: Fine! You’ve made a powerful enemy today, my friend! You haven’t heard the last of Dave Dombr…um, Randy Smith! C’mon, Carlos. And put the stupid head back on.
/walks into lobby
DOMBROWSKI: Take it easy. Don’t hurt anything else.
DOMBROWSKI: Um…Mittens is dead. But here…take this BIG kitty. His name is Carlos. He’s all yours.
/runs out the door
LITTLE GIRL: Awww…poor Mittens. Carlos? Okay… I hope you like tea parties!