1 week's discussion topic: "Have you ever had to restrain an animal? Describe your experience if you have."  In vet terms, of course, "restrain" means "hold the animal so the vet can treat it without anybody getting bitten or scratched".  Here's my response:

I've been holding my own animals at the vet for years - sometimes with help from a vet tech, but mostly on my own. Plus, I do my own nail clipping, dental scaling, and most anal gland cleaning, and on quite a few occasions, I've held or helped to hold other people's animals for first aid, grooming, and occasionally shots. Last but not least, while it's not quite the same as doing vet work, I've had to physically restrain other people's out-of-control dogs on numerous occasions – sometimes dogs belonging to clients, when I was doing dog-walking, and sometimes in order to protect my own dogs or others from an aggressive dog (usually at the park).

So responding to this week's discussion question took some thinking about occasions that might have been particularly memorable or interesting… and also made me stop and think about why and how I started being the one handling my animals at the vet most of the time.
Thinking back, I realized that the handling got started because of Laddie, the dog I had when I was between 11 and 22.
Laddie was an intact male, half Chow and half Golden Retriever, with the trainability of the Golden, but the classic one-person, one-family temperament of the Chow. I could do just about anything with him (including teaching him all sorts of tricks), and he tolerated and somewhat listened to other members of the household. Anyone else pretty much got ignored - as long as you didn't mess with me.
However, he did NOT like to be petted or handled by people he didn't know; anyone who tried got growled at. If they persisted, he growled louder and showed his teeth. If they still persisted, took what he considered liberties, or threatened him, they got bitten – he would give one hard pinch with his teeth; didn't usually break skin, but it would leave a good bruise.

 Only exception to this was very small children; he seemed to understand that they were "puppies", so to speak, and he was the soul of patience with my niece Jenny when she was a baby and toddler.
All of which is a long-winded way of getting around to why, at the age of 13 or so, it worked best for ME to handle him at the vet's. And from there, it just evolved naturally that I started handling my other animals, too.

 
In terms of memorable occasions, the most memorable, unfortunately, are the times I've held my own animals for euthanasia. Those experiences, I don't really want to revisit at this point – other than to mention that with Laddie, who was the first I dealt with myself, it took three shots instead of one.
It wasn't at all painful or unpleasant for Laddie himself, and it didn't upset me (oddly enough), but the poor vet was completely freaked out and shaking like a leaf by the time he finally stopped breathing. Looking back, I realize that she was young – probably late 20s or early 30s – and it was probably the first time she'd had a euth not quite go to plan.

The other most memorable occasion I can think of was about 9 years ago, when my cat Gwydion was about a year old, and got a urinary blockage. At the point I got him to the vet, it had probably been about 24 hours since the poor guy had been able to pee, and his bladder was very very full.
The vet examined him, and was able to feel the blockage in his urethra. She gently tried to break it up, but it wouldn't budge. She turned to me and said, "I hate to say it, but I think we're going to have to keep him here and do surgery. Let me try just one more time." So I got a good grip on him,  and she reached under.
Now, I swear Gwy had somehow understood her, because as she rolled her fingers over the urethra, he got an intense look of concentration on his face and PUSHED REALLY HARD – I think he actually grunted.
The stone popped out, and with the most incredible look of relief I've ever seen on animal or human, he peed… and peed… and peed… and PEED: all over me, all over the vet, it puddled on the table, filled up to the lip, and ran over on the floor, and STILL he peed. My shirt was soaked, my pants were soaked, there was cat pee in my SOCKS even… and I couldn't have been happier.

I didn't even mind the looks I got when I stopped in the 7-11 on the way home to buy fresh cat litter, still squishing in my shoes, and reeking.

However, if I do end up working in a vet's office at some point, the story above is why I plan to have at LEAST one change of clothes or scrubs available at all times….