Pet ownership is exciting
Mystra's been showing signs of a bladder infection the last couple of days (if you don't know, you don't want to), so I decided to take her to the vet this morning. I just had a couple of quick things left to do before we went, so I got the carrier out of the closet, set it on the floor, and propped the door open. A few minutes later I came back to find Mystra sitting in the carrier. (Hey, I didn't adopt her for her sparkling intellect.) So I popped the door closed and hauled her furry ass out to the car, thinking this was going to be easy.
Dear god, was I ever WRONG.
We arrived at the vet's shortly after they opened and were immediately ushered to an exam room. The assistant left the door propped open a bit, so I left Mystra in her carrier and talked to her. As we waited she grew increasingly grumpy, growling at me and batting at my fingers when I put them through the door of the carrier. All right, fine, whatever. After a while Dr. Vet (not his real name, obviously) come in the exam room and I let Mystra out of her carrier. I told Dr. Vet what was up, he poked and prodded her a bit, which made her growl some more, and decided to give her a shot of antibiotics. He grabbed a syringe, walked back to the table, and asked me to hold her front end, which I did. This has never been a problem before.
Until today.
I grabbed her, and she growled and backed away. I grabbed her again. Before our very eyes, my sweet, gentle, even-tempered little tabby cat (see icon) turned into a hissing, spitting, growling demon from the hottest depths of hell. She backed away from us, making a clawed assassination attempt on me. Eyes wide, I looked at Dr. Vet.
"I'll be right back," he said, and disappeared out the door of the exam room. Mystra, meanwhile, stalked around the exam table. A minute later, Dr. Vet reappeared with an assistant and a pair of the heaviest gloves I've ever seen. If you had told me yesterday that a vet was going to have to use those gloves to handle my cat, I would have asked what you were smoking. But there they were, and there Dr. Vet was, wearing them, holding Mystra's dangerous front end, as the assistant aimed the needle at her struggling butt. Attached to the butt was an angrily lashing tail. Mystra struggled. She spat. She hissed.
And as the assistant stuck the needle into the muscle, my sweet, gentle, even-tempered little tabby cat screamed bloody murder. It echoed through the whole building, and echoes still in my head fourteen hours later. You would have thought they were killing her.
And then it was over. The assistant left, Dr. Vet took off the gloves, and Mystra muttered a few more indignant growls. "Are we buddies now?" Dr Vet asked Mystra. She hissed. "No," we agreed. I picked the carrier up off the floor, opened it, and gently pushed my poor, suffering hellcat inside. By the time we got back to the car, she was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. On the ride home I gave her a stern lecture on how we don't cry wolf and try to kill the vet and ME over a little shot. When we got home, I petted her and gave her a cookie, and she purred.
Dear god, was I ever WRONG.
We arrived at the vet's shortly after they opened and were immediately ushered to an exam room. The assistant left the door propped open a bit, so I left Mystra in her carrier and talked to her. As we waited she grew increasingly grumpy, growling at me and batting at my fingers when I put them through the door of the carrier. All right, fine, whatever. After a while Dr. Vet (not his real name, obviously) come in the exam room and I let Mystra out of her carrier. I told Dr. Vet what was up, he poked and prodded her a bit, which made her growl some more, and decided to give her a shot of antibiotics. He grabbed a syringe, walked back to the table, and asked me to hold her front end, which I did. This has never been a problem before.
Until today.
I grabbed her, and she growled and backed away. I grabbed her again. Before our very eyes, my sweet, gentle, even-tempered little tabby cat (see icon) turned into a hissing, spitting, growling demon from the hottest depths of hell. She backed away from us, making a clawed assassination attempt on me. Eyes wide, I looked at Dr. Vet.
"I'll be right back," he said, and disappeared out the door of the exam room. Mystra, meanwhile, stalked around the exam table. A minute later, Dr. Vet reappeared with an assistant and a pair of the heaviest gloves I've ever seen. If you had told me yesterday that a vet was going to have to use those gloves to handle my cat, I would have asked what you were smoking. But there they were, and there Dr. Vet was, wearing them, holding Mystra's dangerous front end, as the assistant aimed the needle at her struggling butt. Attached to the butt was an angrily lashing tail. Mystra struggled. She spat. She hissed.
And as the assistant stuck the needle into the muscle, my sweet, gentle, even-tempered little tabby cat screamed bloody murder. It echoed through the whole building, and echoes still in my head fourteen hours later. You would have thought they were killing her.
And then it was over. The assistant left, Dr. Vet took off the gloves, and Mystra muttered a few more indignant growls. "Are we buddies now?" Dr Vet asked Mystra. She hissed. "No," we agreed. I picked the carrier up off the floor, opened it, and gently pushed my poor, suffering hellcat inside. By the time we got back to the car, she was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. On the ride home I gave her a stern lecture on how we don't cry wolf and try to kill the vet and ME over a little shot. When we got home, I petted her and gave her a cookie, and she purred.