Three Black Spots

Hermione

Early Sunday morning is not a good time to look for anything, except a cup of coffee and the papers. No one is open, and even if they are, no one is in the mood to do anything productive.

Yoda was not well, and at 6.30 on a Sunday morning, we decided to venture out to the Animal Hospital. I expected that we would have to wake up the door guard, and have him let us in. No way. The parking lot was full, and we found space only with a lot of maneuvering.

The reception area was humming, with people and their pets. Was it an excess of partying on Saturday night? Did pets do tequila shots, and suffer the next morning? Had any of them been dancing on tables the night before? Had they been out with Paris Hilton? Were they suffering from pangs of rejection by the face police? Speculation is always fun when you are at the end of a long line, and there is no way you can pull rank or plead priority.

We registered and settled down for a wait. At least an hour and a half we were told. When you are in a waiting area, there is a delicate pas de deux played out between the waitees. Do you strike up a conversation? How do you break the ice? Is it polite to enquire what ailment brought them there? You don’t want to intrude.

Yoda came to the rescue. He has two modes – Babe magnet, so that women come up to him, and coo. Or Bill Clinton – working the crowd, shaking hands, kissing babies, sniffing butts, and making friends. He was in both modes that day. And soon, we had a buzz going in our part of the room.

People- watching has an extra frisson, when there are pets involved. Do people actually come to look like their pets? Does the kind of pet you choose tell us something about your personality?

We saw a biker and his companion swagger in, each holding a big iguana. He had the obligatory tattoos, the wife beater T shirt, the pony tail and a leather vest. She was in extreme denim regalia. Full metal bling draped around their necks, waists, and wrists. What a cliché, straight from Central Casting. No Shih Tzus for these dudes.

Yoda headed straight for a lady with a big animal carrier at her feet. He began to do his dance of joy around the case, sniffing, jumping up, scratching at it. We could only see a dark shape stirring inside the case. ‘ Stop it Yoda. Don’t bug the poor thing’. Yoda was unmoved.

‘She’s a Flemish Giant. She weighs about 30 pounds’. A rabbit who weighed three times as much as Yoda. Not to be trifled with. We asked her name. Hermione.

I have never been good with Western names. I can do John and Jane quite well, but with more complicated names, the nuances of pronunciation elude me. I had never met a Hermione. However I had read the name, and always thought that you pronounce it “Her-me-yoan”. To rhyme with moan.

“Her-my-oni” was another thing altogether. It rhymed with Biryani, sort of. Was this why Yoda was so excited, and prancing around her box? Did he sense a hot Sunday biryani lunch coming up? Biryani and beer equals seventh heaven for most Indians. Was this the curry in Yoda’s blood coming to the fore?

Of such demented thoughts are Sunday mornings filled, especially while waiting for an intern to examine Yoda. We got called, Yoda got looked at. There was nothing wrong with him. Some meds were prescribed. ‘He’ll be fine. He’s just got a little discombobulated, with the travel’. Once again, a word I had seen in print, but never heard used. I was learning a lot on a Sunday morning.

If I hang out long enough at the Animal Medical Center, I suspect that my English will improve. I’d rather not do it with a sick Yoda, and not on early on a Sunday morning.