Sasha, the Customer

***note--I actually wrote and published this in late November, but I somehow managed to accidentally delete it and had to replace it into the blog. Can you tell I'm new at this?***

Sasha and her ultra-sound hair-do

Sasha had an appointment with her doctor the other day. Regretably, this is not like saying she had an appointment with her hairdresser or her therapist (both of which she could use). If it was, she would have been waiting for me to come pick her up with a glass of wine in her hand or a prescription for some drugs in her bag. No, my job here was simply to be the chauffeur and check-writer. Her job was to look pitiful and insist that she felt fine.

Sasha's veterinarian has known her (and, therefore, me) for about thirteen years now. We have been in and out of that office numerous times, sometimes happier to be there than others, but always pleasant and with credit card in hand. At one point, Sasha had four sister-cats (the TLC show is in production now), and so we have spent a great deal of time at our vet's office over the years. When your cat's doctor can call you on the phone and start talking without introducing herself, you know you're important to her business.

So despite Sasha's reluctance, we were happy for an opportunity to check in at Dr. Sheri's office. Sasha needed an ultrasound, so it meant dropping her off at 7:30 inthemiddleofthenight and picking her up later. The faces at the desk were familiar to me, but I didn't know anyone's name. I used to know everyone--that's what happens when you have five cats--but we're not in there as often as we used to be anymore. Nevertheless, I cheerfully (and at 7:30 inthemiddleofthenight, somewhat painfully) announced that I had Sasha to see Dr. Sheri. One of the staff members at the desk gave me a blank stare. Oh, dear. Had Sasha done something to her that no one had mentioned to me? A co-worker quickly picked up the slack and asked me to sign some papers, adding that someone would be out to get Sasha in a moment.

I didn't ponder the blank stare for long. While looking at the paperwork, I heard a familiar voice and called out to a technician I know. An old friend! Sasha didn't seem to care one way or the other, but I was pleased to see someone who had been here even longer than I'd been coming here. We chatted for a few minutes, breaking up only when another tech came to take Sasha back. Kisses to Sasha and my business done, I turned back to the desk to make sure they didn't need anything else, but no one was paying any attention to me, so I left.

It wasn't long before Dr. Sheri called to report on the results of Sasha's ultrasound (fine bladder stones, which while somewhat distressing, are not the point here). A couple of hours later, I walked back through the office door to rescue Sasha from a small cage and the indignities of having her stomach shaved. Three people were at the desk, two of whom I recognized, one of whom I could name, none of whom could name me. I walked up to the one closest to me. "Hi!" I'm much brighter at noon than I am at 7:30 inthemiddleofthenight, and really, who wouldn't look up when I walk in? Besides, I was wearing my high-heeled, black boots, which give me a certain level of sassiness, and I tend to command attention when I have them on.

To my great surprise, the office assistant did not even look up at me. She continued staring at her computer screen, and she let out a long sigh, the kind used to indicate that she was in battle with the computer and could not possibly turn away. Being who I am, I continued standing there and smiling, just daring her to make me say anything else. After thirty seconds (I counted), someone at the other end of the desk called to me "I can take you down here!" Hmmm. Well, I just didn't like that at all, but I needed to save my damsel in distress, so I moved down to the other end of the counter.

"How can I help you?" she smiled at me. Now, she was very pleasant, helpful even, and did nothing unfriendly in communicating with me. She was also the same receptionist with whom I had signed the paperwork and dropped off Sasha a few hours earlier. In the office where I have been going for thirteen years. Where I have spent thousands of dollars. And know my vet so well that I know her voice on the phone. Really? Quickly losing my sense of humor, I said I was there to pick up Sasha.

"Great," she responded. "What's your last name?" Again, really? You should not only recognize me, but know my name, my cat's name, and what brand cereal I eat. Nevertheless, I gave her my name and pulled out my credit card. But something on the screen caused her to pause, and she asked if I'd wait a moment while she went to make sure all the charges were in. Since there was only the one ultrasound, I'm not sure what charges she thought were missing, but sure, go ahead, and she scurried off to check this out.

As I waited, the first person I had greeted (but had not greeted me) came over. "I"m sorry," she said. "I was at still at lunch when you came in." This was approximately one minute earlier. Slightly Passive-Aggressive Tracy thought "If you were at lunch, perhaps you shouldn't have been taking a seat at the front desk and using one of the computers." But I smiled and said nothing. She asked if someone was now helping me, and I briefly explained the confirmation of the charges. Taking this as an opening, she began chatting with me about the weather and what she was doing over the holidays. I recognized this for an attempt to make better her abruptness at my entrance, which was appreciated, but didn't change anything.

The assistant with my credit card returned and indicated that all my charges were in. Not surprised, I signed the receipt and waited. They continued to chat with me a bit, until I finally asked "Is someone actually GETTING Sasha?" They agreed that, oh, yes, the technician was bringing her out, leaving me to wonder why they couldn't have led with that.

Finally, the queen was handed over to me. I greeted her with great enthusiasm, making sure she knew that I was there. I suspect that, had I been able to ask Sasha, she would have agreed that our customer experience that morning was not excellent, but at least I hadn't had my tummy shaved (look closely at this picture of her above, and you can see her bare stomach). Calling out a thank you (I called out a thank you; Sasha turned around in her carrier so I was looking at her behind), she and I took our leave.

Coincidentally, a friend of mine and I had just been having a conversation about the importance of great customer service. We both worked for an organization that places high priority on doing whatever is necessary to keep the customer happy. There are exceptions to that, of course, but we both have incredibly high standards for serving customers. She's currently managing an office in which she has to model and train staff of the significance of recognizing each customer and treating them better than they could be treated anywhere else. We agreed that this is not natural to everyone, but it makes a huge difference in getting and keeping customers (She calls it "faking it." At least, I think that's what she's referring to).

I love Sasha's vet, who does indeed treat her like she's the only cat in the world. I like the office, and I think most of the staff are pleasant and helpful. But I can't help but think there's a lot they could do to make someone like me, a long-time, loyal, and regular customer, feel a little more valued.