"Doctor, you must to help us! Eet ees an emergency of truly vast proportions!"

Such begins almost every telephone conversation with Signora Gucci. Her perfect coif, impeccably white Fendi suit, pristine pedicures in YSL sandals…You know the type: think Sofia Loren á la South Beach. Beautiful, but a little too Britney for her age. And when you open the dictionary to the D's, you’ll find her referenced under Diva, Drama queen, and Demented.

Hence the tears (yet no mascara runs) and the swooning gestures (she never quite makes it to the floor). In short, Sra. Gucci is a veterinarian’s worst nightmare.

Today, Sra Gucci's beloved Maltepoo, Vincenzo, has eaten a dog bone proffered by a well-meaning waiter at an outdoor café on Lincoln Road. Surely the man’s been fired by now after the kind of melee only Sra. Gucci can muster, given one lovely Friday afternoon and perhaps a teeny weeny bit of jealousy over a friend’s new outfit.

And so Vincenzo, accustomed to being whisked this way and that whenever the need arises, arrives in poofy disarray, as if to underline his dire condition.

"Jus, look at heem, Doctor. He feels so seek after that nasty leetle bone! You know he can’t digest bif!"

I carefully lift Vincenzo from his Louis Vuitton carrier, rather as if he were about to explode. Since Sra. Gucci loves it when others join her in her drama and indignation, I examine him meticulously for signs of beef toxicity.

Fortuitously, he seems free of symptoms, except one. "Ma, Signora Gucci, ho trovato un, como se dice…un wart" I offer in my broken Italian.

I brace myself for the onslaught—it comes. She accuses the world of conspiring against her and Vincenzo and swears to avenge her,"leetle poppy" with a hefty lawsuit against the waiter's employer.

Half an hour later, after explaining the true provenance of the dreaded wart, offering tissues (for the tearless wailing and sniffling), and scheduling the cosmetic surgery I’d rather not perform, Sra. Gucci swishes out of our lives—for at least 24 hours.