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The other day, my younger daughter Allison slapped me upside the head — as she is wont to do, and often wants to do.
After Kate and I shelled out thousands of dollars for surgery and four days of hospitalization to save our precious poodle Nico’s life, I complained to Allison about having to spend another five Benjamins to get his stitches removed and his healing hulk X-rayed at a neighborhood veterinarian’s office.
“I don’t know how vets sleep at night — 500 bucks,” I groused in a text to Allison.
After I opened that barn door, animal addict Allison slammed it in my face, responding: “You have to remember that many vets don’t sleep at night, and that’s why the suicide rate amongst them is one of the highest. They feel terrible that they have to charge what they charge — all the while knowing most won’t ever be able to pay off their student loans.”
Chastened, I replied, “Point made.”
Not leaving anything unsaid, Allison added, “I promise you they did not get into the profession to rip people off.”