CHAPTER 3: DOC AND FIREBALL WHISKEY

Why My Vet Deserves a Medal, a Vacation, and a Lifetime Supply of Fireball.

1. Prologue — The Medal Ceremony That Should Exist

There are heroes who storm battlefields, charge into burning buildings, or perform intricate surgeries at 3 a.m. And then there is Doc—the veterinarian who willingly treats my animals knowing full well that I Google everything he tells me not to Google and arrive at appointments armed with screenshots, theories, printouts, graphs, and sometimes photos of Clover’s poop annotated like CIA evidence.

The man deserves a medal. A very big medal. Possibly two. Maybe a parade. But instead, he gets liquid cinnamon-flavored coping mechanisms.

2. The Appointment — How It All Began

It started innocently enough. I brought one of the animals in—who even remembers which one, because statistically speaking there are always at least three in medical crisis at any time. I sat there, vibrating with anxiety, because clearly something was wrong and I had spent the past six hours on the internet making it ten times worse.

Doc looked at me over his glasses. “Rhea… did you go online again?”

My silence was answer enough. He sighed the sigh of a man whose calling in life is to heal animals and prevent their owner from having a cardiac event in Exam Room Two.

Then he leaned back and said, perfectly serious:

“Have you tried alcohol?”

Not: “try chamomile tea.,” or “take deep breaths” - not even “maybe a nice walk.”

Alcohol.

Not exactly a medical recommendation. More like the desperate suggestion of a man who had exhausted every other conceivable method of keeping me off the internet.

And not in a “girls’ brunch, mimosas” kind of way.

More like: “Before you get on WebMD again and convince yourself the dog has scurvy.”

It was a preventative intervention.

3. The Revelation — His Poison of Choice

Naturally, I asked the follow-up question that any responsible adult would:

“What do you drink?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Fireball whiskey. I love Fireball.”

And the way he said love was not casual. Not “I like it.” Not “I’ll have it occasionally.” It was the tone of a man who has seen things and found cinnamon-flavored solace.

This wasn’t a hobby. This was a coping mechanism with a label.

4. The Annual Tribute — A Tradition is Born

Some people bring vets: Gift cards, Thank you notes, Homemade cookies.

I bring cinnamon-flavored gasoline in a bottle because that’s the kind of relationship we have now.

Every year, like clockwork: Doc gets Fireball. Christmas? Fireball. Birthday? Fireball. Random Tuesday? If Clover eats drywall again? Fireball.

I don’t even gift-wrap it anymore. I just hand it over like a tactical supply drop.

5. Spoken Word Version — Snap Fingers Dramatically

I walk into the clinic… White walls. Fluorescent lights. Smell of disinfectant and broken dreams.

Doc turns. He knows. He sees the look—the I Googled it look.

He whispers: “Not again.”

I reach into my bag. Not a printout. Not a lab report. Not a list of questions.

A bottle. Fireball. Our treaty. Our cease-fire. Peace restored.

6. Epic Fantasy Version — The Saga of the Cinnamon Cleric

In the Kingdom of Montrose Hollow,
where beasts roam and ailments stir,
there dwelt a healer—
DOC THE STOIC,
Keeper of Syringes,
Lord of the Thermometers,
Bearer of the Cone of Shame.

Yet even he, mighty though he was,
could not quell the greatest foe:
RHEA, SCHOLAR OF GOOGLE,
SHE WHO CONSULTS THE FORBIDDEN SCROLLS
OF DISEASE AND DOOM.

The cleric found his salvation
not in potions nor spells…
But in a sacred elixir
distilled by wizards
of questionable moral standing:

Fireball,
Cinnamon of Courage,
Flame of Forgetting,
Liquor of the Gods.

Thus a pact was formed.

7. Epilogue — The Real Moral

Does Doc actually need Fireball to survive dealing with me? Probably not.

Has he earned every drop? Absolutely.

And honestly? After nearly thirty years, I think he's entitled to a lifetime supply.