Every year, like clockwork, it begins the same way with an email from the vet that lands in my inbox like a polite little bomb.
“Hi Rachel! Just a friendly reminder that it’s time for your dog’s annual wellness exam!”
I can practically hear the cheerful tone through the screen, the kind of email that’s written by someone sipping a latte and smiling warmly at a golden retriever calendar. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, already sweating because I know what’s coming next.
The appointment itself? Fine. The bill? Manageable, if I don’t make eye contact with the itemized receipt. But the real horror begins when they send us home with what I now lovingly (and begrudgingly) refer to as “The Kit”.
The Kit contains:
- A tiny plastic pan that looks like it was stolen from an Easy Bake Oven.
- A sterile test tube.
- A scooper that is somehow both too small and just right.
- A Ziploc baggie with instructions written in an upbeat tone—as if this is a completely normal task for an adult with bills and anxiety.
I don’t know who invented this process, but I can only assume they’ve never actually tried it. Because in real life, it looks like this: me, in pajamas and Crocs, creeping behind my dog at 7 a.m. like some rogue bathroom ninja, trying to slide a plastic tray under her mid-stream without spooking her.
Meanwhile, I’m whispering things like, “It’s okay, baby, just pretend mommy’s not here collecting your bodily fluids like a total weirdo.”
Naturally, she’s horrified. I would be too.
And the success rate? Maybe one out of ten attempts ends with something in the tray. The other nine involve pee on my hand and a dog who now looks at me like I’ve betrayed her deepest trust.
Then comes the poop sample.
Which, to be clear, does not involve catching anything midair or gracefully timing anything like the urine sample. Oh no. She does her business like a normal, dignified creature, and then I—her loyal, increasingly unhinged human—scoop it up off the ground with the world’s tiniest plastic shovel and proceed to shove it into a test tube the size of a marker cap as if I’m serving hors d’oeuvres at a party I never agreed to host. “Would madam like the fecal canapé on the left or the right?”
And the instructions say things like “Collect a fresh sample.” Fresh? At this point, my dignity is the only thing that’s expired.
No one warns you about this part of pet ownership. They hand you a leash and a pamphlet about heartworm prevention, not a disclaimer that says, “By the way, you’ll be crouched in your yard one day transferring steaming doo doo into a test tube while questioning everything you’ve ever believed about yourself.”
But this is love.
This is the fine print of all the things we sign up for without realizing it. Nobody tells you about the pee-collection portion of the program when you bring home that sweet puppy. Just like nobody tells you about the 2 a.m. vomit cleanups, the vet bills that rival small car payments, or the random mystery stains that appear in your house with no explanation other than “dog.”
And yet—you do it. Every single year. You crouch, you scoop, you sanitize, and you love them anyway. Because love, as it turns out, isn’t glamorous—it’s faithful. It’s unflattering. It’s crouched in the grass at sunrise holding a tiny tray, muttering prayers that this is the moment she finally pees in the right direction.
Honestly? It’s not that different from the rest of adulthood. Marriage, parenting, friendship, work—it’s all full of weird, inconvenient, sometimes gross moments that no one ever warned you about.
Half the job description of being an adult could be summed up as: “Performs awkward tasks out of love and obligation, often before coffee.”
Think about it: You change the batteries in the smoke detector at 2 a.m. because it starts chirping like an unhinged bird. You unclog drains, write sympathy cards, make small talk with neighbors about mulch, and pretend to understand your health insurance portal.
You do things that are mildly humiliating, frequently inconvenient, and occasionally gross—not because you enjoy them, but because that’s what care looks like.
If we’re being honest, the real secret of adulthood is that a shocking percentage of it is mildly embarrassing. You think as a kid that grown-ups have it all together, but most of us are just winging it while holding something weird in a Ziploc bag.
And yet, buried in all that absurdity, there’s something sacred.
Because if you let it, these ridiculous little moments turn tender. The humor becomes a form of grace. The chaos becomes connection. You realize that showing up—again and again, even when it’s messy—is the real measure of love.
Because you’re not just collecting a sample. You’re participating in care. You’re proving that the love you have is big enough to handle small, awkward things. You’re doing the kind of love that doesn’t make headlines but makes a life.
The kind of love that isn’t flashy but endures.
And here’s the best part: after all this chaos, my dog still curls up beside me afterward, tail wagging, no grudges held. She doesn’t remember the Easy Bake Oven tray or all of the careful shoveling—she just remembers I came back inside with her, that she’s safe, that I care.
That’s the whole thing, isn’t it? The ones we love don’t always need us to be impressive. They just need us to show up—sometimes in Crocs, holding a questionable plastic pan, trying our best.
It’s rarely graceful, and it’s almost never convenient. But it’s real. It’s love with mud on its shoes and soap waiting by the sink. It’s the kind of care that happens in the unphotogenic corners of life—the parking lots, the early mornings, the side yards, and the awkward moments in between.
Because the truth is, most of life’s best love stories don’t look like movie scenes. They look like people doing small, unglamorous things for each other over and over again. Picking up the mess. Holding the tray. Choosing to laugh instead of lose it.
So if today involves something weird or uncomfortable or mildly disgusting—or just completely not in the brochure—you’re not alone. You’re probably doing better than you think. You’re showing up, which counts for a lot.
And someday, when your hands are finally clean and your dog is snoring beside you, you’ll realize this is what love actually looks like in the wild: not fancy, not filtered, but faithful.
May your tray stay steady, your aim be true, and your hands stay dry.
Preferably with soap and hot water nearby.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
Leave a Reply