Margaret came home from work around seven thirty this evening. She was a little wiped out; it had been a wild day at the Pet Works (actually named VCA Five Corners Veterinary Hospital. One of the first trials-by-fire for the new front desk people is learning to say all that when you pick up the phone without spitting your gum across the room).

Among the rest of the wild rumpus, a goodish helping of confusion and disarray was sown by the fact that there were two separate cases in for surgery to fix a bowel obstruction (all right, two bowel obstructions; the two patients didn’t share the same obstruction), both of which were dogs, both of which were named Cooper.

I laughed. “That’s a great name for one dog with a bowel obstruction, let alone two,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked as she pitched her work scrubs into the hamper.

“Well, a ‘cooper’ is traditionally a person who makes barrels, right?” She nodded as she crossed the room. “So, if you’re gonna have a patient who needs his bunghole reamed out, what better candidate than a patient named Cooper?”

Margaret turned to face me. “I do love your way with words,” she said.