Vaccination Day

Yesterday was a busy day for us. The morning started with a bit of chaos—not the cozy, homely kind that I enjoy, but a real operation. In the lead roles were the dogses, who needed to get their rabies vaccinations. I can’t say they were thrilled, especially once they began to suspect that something was off. But we’ve done this before—we know how to load up the car, how to organize the trip. Some jumped in on their own, others had to be coaxed, and a few—no need to point paws at Biscuit Seal—were simply lifted in with a philosophical sigh: “Off we go again…”

On the way there, they exchanged glances, wagged tails, one whined quietly, another snoozed with his nose tucked into a neighbor’s fur. And I was thinking—how important this all is. How important it is not to postpone, not to forget, not to leave it for “later.” Because rabies isn’t just a disease. It’s a terrible, fatal illness with no cure. It can destroy a dog’s life, and it can be dangerous for humans too. Especially in the countryside, where wild animals are around, where stray dogs roam freely, and fences aren’t always secure.

People often ask me why I vaccinate my dogs if they stay home. But mine don’t. We live in a house, they run around the yard, we walk in the forest, down to the river. They meet other animals, sniff absolutely everything sniffable, and sometimes even try a taste. No matter how vigilant I am, I can't predict everything. What if just one sick fox with odd behavior wanders into our yard?

That’s why I see vaccination as a basic act of responsibility—towards them, towards myself, and towards others. I’m not just protecting my dogs. I’m helping create a safe environment. Rabies doesn’t forgive mistakes. It gives no second chances. And a vaccine is just five minutes of fuss, a couple of shots, and a whole year of peace of mind.

At the clinic, of course, things were noisy. Someone tried to bolt, someone gave a dramatic performance, Biscuit Seal sighed and squinted as if to say, “I deserve better than this.” Coconut looked at me with soulful eyes, as if asking what he did to deserve such treatment. Julie, the grande dame of the crew, was calm and dignified, with a slight air of disdain for the whole circus. Uma tried to crawl under the table. Toffa gave a couple of deep growls—just to keep things in order. And Styopa, as always, was ready to kiss everyone in the clinic, including the other patients.

Afterwards, we came home, and I made them a big pot of chicken broth—as one does after a stressful event. They ate with gusto and then sprawled out in their favorite spots, sleeping through the evening. Even Coconut, who usually never stops zooming around, was unusually quiet. Clearly, it had been a big day.

I sat and looked at them, thinking how much love there is in these furry creatures, how much trust and devotion. And how easily we can fail them if we forget the simplest things—like an annual vaccine. It’s not just care, it’s a promise we make when we take responsibility for a dog: that it will be fed, safe, and protected from whatever dangers we can shield it from.

And I realized how important it is to talk about this. To remind each other. Because often it’s forgetfulness, not indifference, that leads to tragedy. We’re all busy, with a thousand things to do. But rabies won’t wait for your work deadline to pass or your home renovations to end. It doesn’t give grace periods. And if a vaccine is overdue, the risk is real. For everyone.

So I’m saying it out loud: if you have a dog or a cat, check now—when was their last rabies shot? If it’s been over a year, it’s time to renew. Don’t fear the vet clinic, don’t put it off. It’s not just a formality. It’s protection for life. It’s the peace of knowing that if the unexpected happens—you’ve done your part.

And mine are sleeping now. Coconut has his head on his paws, Biscuit Seal’s tail is sticking out from under a blanket, and Julie is dozing on a soft pillow. Peaceful, quiet, trusting. And I know—I did something important for them. I chose life again. And I hope that vaccine never has to prove its worth. But just knowing it’s there—that’s priceless.