CHANGE YOUR MIND ABOUT SOMETHING
Yesterday I was quietly sitting at my computer writing (ok surfing for pictures of woman in slave Princess Leia outfits) with my cat lounging innocently on my desk next to me when my wife burst into the office with a pair of scissors. “It’s time to take the stitches out of the cat,” She said ominously. It had been 14 days since our cat (Mr. Sneaches) had minor surgery to remove a large mole.
I was shocked at her statement. “I’ll make an appointment with the vet tomorrow,” I said.
“Then one of us will have to take off from work. Let’s just do it ourselves, right now!” she jeered while focusing the desk lamp on the unsuspecting victim.
“Are you insane? You’re not a Vet. You don’t know what you are doing,” I protested shielding the cat from her advance.
“Come on. It’s no big deal. You get under the knot and, snip, snip, snip.” I was convinced she was out of her mind. This delicate procedure could only be carried out in a modern sterile surgical arena and only by a team of highly trained professionals. At one point I was running through the house, cradling the poor animal while my crazed wife chased us both with rusty garden sheers. My wife informs me that this last part might be an exaggeration, but that’s what I remember.
After everyone calmed down (and the cat was temporarily given over to the custordy of the neighbors for its own safety), it was agreed that I would call my wife’s father (who really is a vet) and ask if it is alright for her to remove the stitches. He informed me that she had seen and assisted in this procedure dozens of times before. As long as she sterilizes the cuticle scissors (which she had already done) all would be fine.
Everything went off without a hitch and the cat didn’t even know what happened. I was completely wrong. Apparently this sort of postoperative surgery is so simple you can do it on a Latin American bus traveling up the side of a dusty mountain trail surrounded by livestock and malaria. (I am now being informed by my wife that this also might be incorrect)
The point is - it’s ok to be wrong. I am always learning and because of this, I am constantly adjusting my preconceived notions. I am happy and proud to admit that.
I was shocked at her statement. “I’ll make an appointment with the vet tomorrow,” I said.
“Then one of us will have to take off from work. Let’s just do it ourselves, right now!” she jeered while focusing the desk lamp on the unsuspecting victim.
“Are you insane? You’re not a Vet. You don’t know what you are doing,” I protested shielding the cat from her advance.
“Come on. It’s no big deal. You get under the knot and, snip, snip, snip.” I was convinced she was out of her mind. This delicate procedure could only be carried out in a modern sterile surgical arena and only by a team of highly trained professionals. At one point I was running through the house, cradling the poor animal while my crazed wife chased us both with rusty garden sheers. My wife informs me that this last part might be an exaggeration, but that’s what I remember.
After everyone calmed down (and the cat was temporarily given over to the custordy of the neighbors for its own safety), it was agreed that I would call my wife’s father (who really is a vet) and ask if it is alright for her to remove the stitches. He informed me that she had seen and assisted in this procedure dozens of times before. As long as she sterilizes the cuticle scissors (which she had already done) all would be fine.
Everything went off without a hitch and the cat didn’t even know what happened. I was completely wrong. Apparently this sort of postoperative surgery is so simple you can do it on a Latin American bus traveling up the side of a dusty mountain trail surrounded by livestock and malaria. (I am now being informed by my wife that this also might be incorrect)
The point is - it’s ok to be wrong. I am always learning and because of this, I am constantly adjusting my preconceived notions. I am happy and proud to admit that.
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