Super Nice Guy

Several people, ones not even related to me, have told me recently that I make people nicer. One told me it was my "superpower," which would be about right -- all these badass powers like flight or strength and I get a wussy, googie-goodie one.

I am trying to figure out a situation that would require the Justice League to call me in.

"Strong, super-intelligent aliens with kryptonite flecks on their skin have landed outside Metropolis, Batman," cries Wonder Woman. "Superman is dead; we're helpless."

"Not so fast, Diana; we still have one option," Batman replies.

Aquaman turns white as a sheet. "You don't mean ..." gulps Flash.

"Yes, friends. This is a job for Super Nice Guy," Batman shouts. "Put out the call!"

"Don't forget his sidekick, Funny Dog," Martian Manhunter pipes up.

They make the call, but of course, I don't hear it and we end up with alien overlords. It could happen.

I have been thinking about my superpower since I went to a new vet on Thursday. My vet left the practice and while I liked the staff, I was not a fan of the other vets, so I decided to switch to a vet closer to home.

One of my friends went there and she told me the vet was great, but that the office staff was distant. Internet reviews often said the same.

But they were great to me.

I checked in and the gal came around the counter with forms for me to fill out. I said OK, but then she just said, I'll fill them out with you, and she went through them with me, getting Claren's basic health info.

She then called me into a room and when I asked grabbed the fecal sample out of my bag -- "favorite part of the job," she said.

The vet was good, as advertised.

The woman who checked me out came around the counter to give me the bill and then held the door for me to leave.

It was a good appointment. I just hope you don't mind alien overlords.