Michael A. Obenski, DVM

Mr. Change shuffled into the clinic and deposited his carcass in the nearest chair.

In a distant corner of an obscure galaxy, there is a little building with a big mortgage. It's my office.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. He was the greatest practical joker that ever lived. With just a few pieces of wire and a homemade battery, he has managed to cause more confusion than even the most sophisticated of computer viruses. I am referring, of course, to that madcap funster, Alexander Graham Bell.

Last month, I received a phone call from Mr. Maykit concerning his dog's rash.

Byar checked his speedometer and was thrilled to find that he was making good time.

Exuding his usual charm, Pucker greeted me from his perch atop the exam table.

There were three identical-looking spaniels on the exam room floor. Coincidentally, there were three neatly folded patient records in my hand. (Let the games begin.)

Recently, I ran across a newspaper article that shook me to the marrow.

Mr. Dollar had absolutely no intention of skimping on anything as important as the health of his pet.

Mr. Dollar had absolutely no intention of skimping on anything as important as the health of his pet.

In 1972, Dr. Birdseye had just graduated from veterinary school and entered the world of private practice. He was brimming with both enthusiasm for his profession and confidence in his abilities.

I waited politely while the two young men seated next to me finished their conversation.