Michael A. Obenski, DVM

Last week, sensing that spring was in the air, I realized that it was time for my annual visit to our old friend and colleague, Dr. Leonard D. Hardway. As you may recall, Leonard is a stressed out veterinarian who now resides at The Cold Ember Home for Burned Out Veterinarians, located in Rope's End, Wisconsin.

He was only about 18 inches tall and seemed completely motionless. I wanted to get up close and take his picture, but I was afraid to approach him. Then, one of his eyes flicked open. I jumped 30 feet. The crocodile was only 12 feet long.

Will Rogers was a man of great perception whose homespun brand of humor and philosophy once captivated America.

I have known Puzzle for years. Furthermore, I enjoy seeing the little pooch now and again even if his owners are a little wacky. (Aren't they all?) However, his most recent visit to my office did not go as smoothly as usual.

I could see the problem the moment I entered the exam room, but, just for fun, I decided to wait until Mr. Obtuse pointed it out to me.

It was a landmark phone call. Mrs. Itis is concerned about the health of her aging cats, needed to talk to the doctor "right away."

I could hardly believe my eyes, but there he was.

I patiently explained the technique several times, but Mr. Bungle didn't seem to be able to grasp the concept.

ith little more than a glance at the first X-ray, Flora knew the diagnosis. Still, she took a few minutes to study both views carefully just as she always instructed her students to do. She knew all too well that her years of experience had not granted her immunity from mistakes. Then, satisfied that the films showed no evidence of less obvious problems which would prove to be embarrassing if discovered later, she headed for the privacy of her office to make the phone call. Many of the other staff members shared offices, but as a perk of seniority, she

I was just finishing up the office call with his dog, when Mr. Isobar asked me an important question.

As you undoubtedly know, computers have revolutionized our ability to store and retrieve information.

Telephone calls from my friend, Arnie, fall into a category I term E-calls.

As my receptionist handed me the cat's medical record, I was immediately impressed with the size of it. Clearly, it was one of the thickest files ever compiled at my clinic.

'You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but...'

It was a strange phone call, indeed. At least, that's what my secretary thought. "Doctor," she said. "There's a man on line one who keeps yelling the number six." I asked her if that was all he had said, and she replied that his exact words were: "Six! Six! Get Obenski to the phone. Tell him that I have a classic six!"

I was just finishing my supper, when the call came in on the home phone. It was Mr. Izzy A. Payne calling about his dog, Yessiree Bob. "I'm sorry to call you at home, doctor," he said.

I watched them for five minutes. Mrs. Crowbait looked at the horse, and as might be expected, the horse looked at her. Neither of them moved.

Vera Stingy was so upset that she rushed one of her dogs over to see me after waiting just three days longer than she should have. (Usually, she waits until death is imminent.)

I entered the exam room and introduced myself as I always do with new clients.

Have you ever noticed the similarity between hiring an employee and purchasing a new shirt?

Each of us receives the occasional "thank you" note or letter of praise from a grateful client.

From the editor: In January we invited readers to submit their own versions of "Where Did I Go Wrong" in the second Mike Obenski Writing Contest. More than 200 entries poured in and among them Mike Obenski found four worthy of appearing with "the master." This month, Dr. Mark Peter's entry, "The Terminator," garners second prize. Next month the third prize winner will appear; in September, the honorable mention.

Mr. Betcha is one of the most cooperative clients you could ever hope to have.

From the editor: They kept coming and coming and coming. Every day during January and February I would get an exasperated look from the mailroom guy as he brought in my mail. Some days he had to carry it with both hands. Most days it wouldn't fit in my in-box so he dumped it on my table.

Caution! You may be one of the 12 veterinarians who are going to be highly annoyed by the material in this column.

I could hardly believe my eyes. My boss, Dr. Oldguy, was throwing away pieces of mail without even opening them.

I used to have a handle on life, but it broke. At least that's what my friend, Arnie, says. If your practice suffered greatly from the February doldrums and you had nothing better to do with your time than to read my column, then you may recall what he said about me last month.

At first, the task seemed simple. All I had to do was to give the pooch an injection, dispense a few pills and send him home.

Which one would I choose: the glazed, the powdered, or my usual favorite, the jelly donut?

I left the exam room for just a few minutes to get a shot of penicillin for her dog. By the time I got back, Mrs. Quibble was hopping mad.