It all started at precisely 7:38 a.m., when the universe made a catastrophic error, scheduling both Athena and Obito for a joint vet appointment. This was not just any vet visit. No. This was The Annual Checkup, the dreaded day when the dogs get poked, prodded, weighed (a sensitive subject for Obito), vaccinated, and most importantly thermometered. The house that morning was a swirling maelstrom of tension, dog hair, and suspicious side-eyes. Athena, the husky of grace and vengeance, immediately knew something was off when her breakfast was served early and involved the words “Come here, Princess” said in that high-pitched, fake-cheerful human voice usually reserved for tricking dogs into bathtubs. She looked the human square in the face and barked once. Loudly. In fluent profanity. Obito, meanwhile, was excited beyond measure. He thought they were going to the park. He pranced around with his leash in his mouth, smacking himself repeatedly in the eyeball but smiling the whole time. This is a dog who greets bees with kisses. He was ready. Munchkin the tabby cat, watching from atop the fridge like the godfather of household trauma, gave a slow blink that said, “You’ll never return whole.” Off they went. The car ride was uneventful, if you ignore the fact that Athena attempted a full jailbreak at a red light and Obito somehow got his entire head stuck in a cupholder. But then... they arrived. The VETS. Athena froze. She squinted at the building like it owed her money. Obito happily waltzed in, immediately peed on the plastic plant, and knocked over a display of “dental chews for sensitive gums.” He then tried to eat one wrapper and all while making aggressive eye contact with the receptionist. Athena refused to cross the threshold. She did the full brake, paws splayed, back arched, deadweight mode activated. It took two humans and the promise of cheese to convince her to enter. She glared the entire time. Royal. Righteous. Ready to sue. In the waiting room, chaos unfurled. Athena whined a slow, dramatic, operatic dirge. A husky ballad of betrayal and doom. Obito was trying to kiss a Great Dane the size of a motorcycle. The Great Dane looked offended. Obito sneezed in his face. Somewhere, a child cried. Then, a voice: “Athena and Obito?” The nurse had no idea what she had just summoned. Obito sprinted in, tail wagging like a helicopter about to take off. Athena had to be dragged in sideways like a defiant noodle. First: the scale. Obito: 110 pounds of love, fluff, and regret. He flopped onto the scale like a walrus giving up on life. The vet tech wrote it down and said, “He’s... healthy.” Athena: 52 pounds of fury. She stood on the scale with the elegance of a supermodel, but made eye contact that said, “I will end your career.” Then came the exams. Athena refused to sit. She laid down in the most inconvenient spot and flailed anytime a thermometer came near her royal rear. It took three people, one jar of peanut butter, and a Bluetooth speaker playing whale noises to convince her to stop growling at the stethoscope. Obito, meanwhile, LOVED the attention. He licked the vet’s face. He licked the nurse’s face. He licked the floor. He licked Athena. Athena growled. Obito licked the air. He was living his best life. Then the vet said the words: “Time for the temperature check.” Athena stood up so fast the peanut butter jar flew. She ran a lap around the exam room, leapt over the counter, and knocked over a skeleton model of a dog. Obito thought it was a new friend and tackled it with glee. The vet, bless her soul, was patient. But the thermometer remained untouched. It became a standoff. Athena stared. The vet stared. Obito licked the vet’s shoe and farted. Eventually, with the cunning of a Bond villain, the vet distracted Athena with a cheese treat and... boop. Thermometer deployed. Athena yodeled. The entire building heard. A poodle in the next room fainted. Vaccinations followed. Obito didn’t notice. He was busy trying to seduce a bag of kibble on a shelf. Athena took hers with the same expression a queen might have while being slapped with a fish. Pure disdain. By the end, the vet looked like she’d aged ten years. The exam room looked like a frat party had been held there, fur everywhere, a spilled jar of treats, a broken poop bag dispenser, and somehow, inexplicably, a single Croc shoe in the sink. The bill was paid. Apologies were mumbled. Obito peed on another plant. Munchkin was watching from the living room window when they returned, absolutely radiating smug satisfaction. Athena sulked for hours under a pile of stolen laundry, refusing to make eye contact. Obito passed out mid-lick on the floor, snoring like a hairy leaf blower. And somewhere, in a vet’s office far, far away, a group of professionals quietly placed a note in their file: “Caution: Drama Queen and Emotional Marshmallow. Recommend sedation or priest.”
Intwined 