It was Monday again, and I turned on Arthur Brooks and Oprah's audiobook Building the Life You Want for a pep talk on my morning commute. Work is a pillar of happiness, they told me. Bring on the bliss.
I arrived at the vet clinic where I work. Clients waited in a crowded parking lot for the walk-in line to open. I was preparing for my first patient, a cat with chin acne, when a man poked his head out of the next room, asking for paper towels. He took a giant wad of them, not once, not twice, but three different times.
My pep talk had already vanished from memory.
Moving on, I went to see the chin-acne cat. After an exam, I decided that an antimicrobial gel and a chat about getting rid of plastic bowls would do the trick. The owner did not hear a word of it. "What about witch hazel?" she interrupted.
I told her witch hazel is toxic to cats if accidentally ingested and gave it another go with my treatment plan. Then, I followed her into the lobby to drop off a form, where a frazzled woman ambushed me for suggestions. The receptionist looked like she wanted to dive over the desk to stop her, but it was too late. There were no more walk-in slots available, and she wanted an alternative. “Can I use a snot sucker on my kitten?"
What would Brooks and Winfrey say now?
After freeing myself from the lobby, I faced the paper towel man’s room. As I opened the door, I gagged on the stench of voluminous piles of dog poop. Behind the door was a hyperactive pit bull with wide-set eyes and not a lick of sense between them. The dog's body quivered with joy. Then, he latched his body to my leg like an industrial-grade vacuum and started humping. Assisted by the elderly owner and vet tech, I performed a Houdini act to free myself.
My pillar of happiness was crumbling (and probably marked with plenty of dog pee).
I trudged to the car at the end of the day with a faint whiff of pit bull poop still lodged in my nostrils. The last client waved and uttered a heartfelt "thank you." In the grand circus of vet life, that's my standing ovation, and it’s enough for me. After all, a respectable purpose- not a respectable day- makes our work worthwhile. Lucky for me, the loads of purpose are almost as voluminous as the dog poop. It's a good thing I don't need paper towels to collect it. We're almost out of those. | 
