The Yak

Ring…ring…ring.
“Schwartz Veterinary Clinic - Dr. Schwartz speaking.”
“I think my yak is sick.”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s…ah… Fred.”
“Fred who?”
“Ah… Fred…ah… Smith.”
“OK Mr. Smith, what seems to be the problem?”
“my yak is sick”
“how do you know?”
“Well he’s layin’ here on the floor with his feet up in the air and he aint movin’.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you check for me?”
“How do I do that?”
“Put your face close to his and if you feel warm air coming out of his nose or mouth, then he’s still alive.”
“Are you out of your mind? Did you ever smell a yak’s breath? It’ll darn near kill ya.”
“All right then, put your hand close to his mouth.”
“OK.”
“Well, did you feel any air coming out of his nose and mouth?”
“I can’t tell, his face is next to the heating vent and the heat is on.”
“Then move him away from the vent.”
“Are you crazy? Do you know how much a yak weighs? I’ll sprain my damn back.”
“Then turn the heat off.”
“No way! It’s cold as a freezer outside"
“OK then, Is his heart beating?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you check for me?”
“How do I do that?”
“Put your hand under his left front leg. If you feel his heart beating, he’s still alive.”
“OK.”
“Well, did you feel his heart beating?”
“I can’t tell.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell?”
“Well I’m just not sure. I mean I think it might be beating, but I can’t be positive. Maybe it’s my own pulse I’m feelin’.”
“Listen, I don’t know what more I can do for you.”
“Oh that’s just great - so you’re just going to give up on my poor yak.” The man starts sobbing. “Poor Harry, I loved him. He was the only friend I had. We used to take long walks together and…”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you but you have to give me some more information before I can help you. How old is the yak?”
“He’s about twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five! That’s very old for a yak. I guess after spending twenty-five years together, you are very attached to Harry.”
“I’ve only had him two years,”
“You mean you bought a twenty-three year old yak?”
“Do you have any idea how much a baby yak costs? I’m on a fixed income here.”
“Did he have any physical problems?”
“Well, last week Colin Powell scratched him pretty good.”
“You mean to tell me that the Secretary of State scratched your yak?”
“No, Colin Powell is my cat. I wanted to call him Donald Rumsfeld, but my brother-in-law already picked the name for his water buffalo.”
“It sounds like you have a very interesting family.”
“We do what we can.”
“How did Harry get scratched?”
“Colin Powell got mad because Harry was using his litter box.”
“You mean to tell me that you trained a twenty-three year old yak to use a litter box?”
“yes, It wasn’t easy either.”
“What did you feed the yak?”
“Baked beans.”
“Oh my Gosh, that’s not the right diet for a yak. Didn’t he have bad gas?”
“I couldn’t tell – I eat lots of baked beans myself and I have sinus problems.”
“Could you bring the yak in?”
“Sure, I’ll just stuff him into the trunk of my compact car and I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
“Listen, there’s no need to get sarcastic with me – I’m just trying to help you. Where do you live?”
“Well…ah…I live at…ah…500 Main St.”
“Wait a minute - 500 Main St. is the address of the Hosenfeffer Mental Hospital.”
“Sorry, wrong number.”
“wack-o.”

Ring…ring…ring.
“Pennypacker Veterinary Clinic – Dr. Pennypacker speaking.”
“I think my yak is sick.”