You are folding and unfolding the appointment reminder in your lap, the paper going soft at the creases, and the cat carrier is pressed against your shin so you can feel the small shifting weight of him complaining inside it.
You are worried. I remember. The chemical-lemon smell, the scale in the floor, the other dog panting three chairs down. You are running numbers in your head, rehearsing questions, bracing.
Here is the thing you cannot see from there. It is routine. It comes back fine. The name they call is his, and you both stand up, relieved, and stop for the drive-through on the way home because you decided he'd earned it.
What I would give to have that afternoon back exactly as it was. Not the good news. The waiting. Your thumb through the airholes of the carrier, and the way he pushed his cold nose against it, annoyed at you, trusting you completely, the two of you close enough to touch through a quarter-inch of plastic.
You spend that whole hour wishing it were over.
Do me one small favor. When they call his name, before you get up, put your thumb back to the airhole one more time. Let him bite it.
You will be so glad you did.