Sunday, August 10, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
A Trip to the Vet's
I was peed on by a dog today. A little, white rat bastard of a dog at the vet's. This is why, even though I have owned two beloved dogs and known many others, my leaning is towards cats. I will watch my language through this post.
One of the cats needed a small but important procedure, and to take a cat to the vet, you sanely need a two day warm-up. First, you get the carrier out, ha-ha, look, it's just the carrier, no one is going anywhere; leave the carrier in a place where the cats will pass by it during the day, so that it becomes part of the furniture arrangement for them. Have the door open.
The day before, tip the whole thing up on one end, so that when the time comes, you can casually drop the cat in like a reverse rabbit out of a hat trick. Check the door to make sure it is firmly set within the hinges, and will swing shut one-handedly.
The day of the appointment, do not call kitty kitty kitty, for the cat knows. I will put on a short play, and maybe have a book, a paper, or a plant in hand and not even head for the cat. Not even go near the cat. I carry my book around the apartment, like there is book business to be taken care of, nothing to do with cats, nope. When I've walked around enough so that the cat ignores what I'm doing, I nonchalantly walk by, set down whatever I'm carrying, and gently but firmly swoop up the cat and lie to it. What a good kitty you are, such a good cat, we're going for a short ride to see grandma and I think Sammy Davis Jr. will be there (I love Sammy Davis Jr.), we can stop for ice cream, blah blah blah. The cat is tense but really likes ice cream, so there may be a deal.
At the upended cage, put the cat in hindquarters first, that way they can't brace themselves with their front paws against the frame of the carrier door. Do it fast, and they won't know what happened. The whole thing is easier if they're asleep, but there is something unfair about that. Tulip, who recently had surgery, was the one going; she was given to me by the vet who said that since I was so good with cats, I won Door Number Two, behind which was a small teapot shaped animal. She was frightened of everyone, and stayed in the Room with Books for four years. Four freaking years. Of course, the white cat who is short one vertebrae, has bad knees, hops, and is basically a Special Olympics cat bullied her, lorded it over, was the cat of cats until one day Tulip snapped and beat the snot out of Snowbelle. Now the roles have switched, and Tutu lives anywhere she wants and will chase the white demon to under the bed.
Anyway, the point of all of the above is that Tulip is a ninja at hiding; I started carrying a plant around an hour earlier, because it would take that long to find her. She was nowhere, a flashlight to look under dressers, beds, and in the back of closets revealed her powers of invisibility. You get goofy when the appointment is nearing, and start looking in obtuse places, like, did the cat accidentally get stuck in the refrigerator? Vents, behind folded towels, in areas that she would have to melt herself into a pancake to fit into, nada, my friend.
There are three dressers, and she was in the second drawer of the second dresser, managing to wedge herself under the loose top drawer and in with the winter sweaters. She is a small cat. The stunned look on her face when the drawer opened was gratifying, as if Holmes caught Moriarty. Scooped her up, did the rear end first into the carrier, and latched the door. She cries pitifully, and adds further pathos by essentially giving up and laying on the floor of the carrier, dismal, sad, on the way to the gallows. Tulip would give the Broadway stage a run for their money.
At the vet, three different owners have the same breed of dog, bichon frises, and are talking as to how amazing it is that they have the same breed, with appointments on the same day. I had gotten up to Purell my hands, and noticed the owner of one was looking at the available adoptees, apparently unaware that her dog was whizzing on the swinging door to the reception desk. Then he peed on the display of canned food, then he peed on the available adoptee. THE OWNER DID NOTHING. Come on Sherbet, let's go sit down. She was either blind to the color yellow, rock stupid, or just plain rude. The receptionist got gloves, spray, paper towels, and wiped up the three puddles Sherbet the fireman bestowed on the surroundings.
She, her boyfriend, and Sherbet were called in, whatever exam needed was done, and they came struttin' back out, big smiles as everything must have gone well. I'm not watching the lawn sprinkler, lord knows why I expected one of the adults to be aware, right then I was telling Tulip how big guy cat Steve could make a sandwich out of any of these little bichon freezie pop dogs, when the nice lady next to me gasps. Oh! says Sherbet's owner, he's peeing on your shoe-leg-purse. Another Trifecta. Did she pull him away? NO, SHE DID NOT. I gave the little creep a shove and if I was not in front of people, Sherbet would have been the Canine Sputnik of 2014, or I would have given him to the restaurant up the street. They sell goat, why not French dog?
No assistance, no help with paper towels, there was one "I'm sorry," before turning back to the counter to pay the bill. I got the disinfectant spray and toweling, and cleaned up as well as I could before it was Tulip's turn. The lady next to me, who worked at the SPCA for ten years, asked the owners if the dog was recently neutered? Nope, no, he was fixed when we got him. Did you get him from a puppy mill? Nope. They seemed offended that the rest of the world thought less of Sherbet than they did. Their entire lives must be anointed with dog whizz.
When home, I tossed the shoes and pants, and dabbed the purse with hydrogen peroxide, but have a feeling that it will be discarded as well, for every time I look at it, I will think of Sherbet, which will make my blood pressure go up, and it's pretty good right now. So, how was your day?
I'm going to bed. It's the Farmer's Market tomorrow with Pauline, and then a Day of Art. Maybe soup. Pauline and her husband have a very nice dog, he's a good fella who could wear Sherbet as a corsage. The night holds promises; the farmers may be out picking in their fields even now, some rise at three in the morning to bundle carrots and Swiss chard. Stir your dreams, wrap them in endeavor. Good night.
One of the cats needed a small but important procedure, and to take a cat to the vet, you sanely need a two day warm-up. First, you get the carrier out, ha-ha, look, it's just the carrier, no one is going anywhere; leave the carrier in a place where the cats will pass by it during the day, so that it becomes part of the furniture arrangement for them. Have the door open.
The day before, tip the whole thing up on one end, so that when the time comes, you can casually drop the cat in like a reverse rabbit out of a hat trick. Check the door to make sure it is firmly set within the hinges, and will swing shut one-handedly.
The day of the appointment, do not call kitty kitty kitty, for the cat knows. I will put on a short play, and maybe have a book, a paper, or a plant in hand and not even head for the cat. Not even go near the cat. I carry my book around the apartment, like there is book business to be taken care of, nothing to do with cats, nope. When I've walked around enough so that the cat ignores what I'm doing, I nonchalantly walk by, set down whatever I'm carrying, and gently but firmly swoop up the cat and lie to it. What a good kitty you are, such a good cat, we're going for a short ride to see grandma and I think Sammy Davis Jr. will be there (I love Sammy Davis Jr.), we can stop for ice cream, blah blah blah. The cat is tense but really likes ice cream, so there may be a deal.
At the upended cage, put the cat in hindquarters first, that way they can't brace themselves with their front paws against the frame of the carrier door. Do it fast, and they won't know what happened. The whole thing is easier if they're asleep, but there is something unfair about that. Tulip, who recently had surgery, was the one going; she was given to me by the vet who said that since I was so good with cats, I won Door Number Two, behind which was a small teapot shaped animal. She was frightened of everyone, and stayed in the Room with Books for four years. Four freaking years. Of course, the white cat who is short one vertebrae, has bad knees, hops, and is basically a Special Olympics cat bullied her, lorded it over, was the cat of cats until one day Tulip snapped and beat the snot out of Snowbelle. Now the roles have switched, and Tutu lives anywhere she wants and will chase the white demon to under the bed.
Anyway, the point of all of the above is that Tulip is a ninja at hiding; I started carrying a plant around an hour earlier, because it would take that long to find her. She was nowhere, a flashlight to look under dressers, beds, and in the back of closets revealed her powers of invisibility. You get goofy when the appointment is nearing, and start looking in obtuse places, like, did the cat accidentally get stuck in the refrigerator? Vents, behind folded towels, in areas that she would have to melt herself into a pancake to fit into, nada, my friend.
There are three dressers, and she was in the second drawer of the second dresser, managing to wedge herself under the loose top drawer and in with the winter sweaters. She is a small cat. The stunned look on her face when the drawer opened was gratifying, as if Holmes caught Moriarty. Scooped her up, did the rear end first into the carrier, and latched the door. She cries pitifully, and adds further pathos by essentially giving up and laying on the floor of the carrier, dismal, sad, on the way to the gallows. Tulip would give the Broadway stage a run for their money.
At the vet, three different owners have the same breed of dog, bichon frises, and are talking as to how amazing it is that they have the same breed, with appointments on the same day. I had gotten up to Purell my hands, and noticed the owner of one was looking at the available adoptees, apparently unaware that her dog was whizzing on the swinging door to the reception desk. Then he peed on the display of canned food, then he peed on the available adoptee. THE OWNER DID NOTHING. Come on Sherbet, let's go sit down. She was either blind to the color yellow, rock stupid, or just plain rude. The receptionist got gloves, spray, paper towels, and wiped up the three puddles Sherbet the fireman bestowed on the surroundings.
She, her boyfriend, and Sherbet were called in, whatever exam needed was done, and they came struttin' back out, big smiles as everything must have gone well. I'm not watching the lawn sprinkler, lord knows why I expected one of the adults to be aware, right then I was telling Tulip how big guy cat Steve could make a sandwich out of any of these little bichon freezie pop dogs, when the nice lady next to me gasps. Oh! says Sherbet's owner, he's peeing on your shoe-leg-purse. Another Trifecta. Did she pull him away? NO, SHE DID NOT. I gave the little creep a shove and if I was not in front of people, Sherbet would have been the Canine Sputnik of 2014, or I would have given him to the restaurant up the street. They sell goat, why not French dog?
No assistance, no help with paper towels, there was one "I'm sorry," before turning back to the counter to pay the bill. I got the disinfectant spray and toweling, and cleaned up as well as I could before it was Tulip's turn. The lady next to me, who worked at the SPCA for ten years, asked the owners if the dog was recently neutered? Nope, no, he was fixed when we got him. Did you get him from a puppy mill? Nope. They seemed offended that the rest of the world thought less of Sherbet than they did. Their entire lives must be anointed with dog whizz.
When home, I tossed the shoes and pants, and dabbed the purse with hydrogen peroxide, but have a feeling that it will be discarded as well, for every time I look at it, I will think of Sherbet, which will make my blood pressure go up, and it's pretty good right now. So, how was your day?
I'm going to bed. It's the Farmer's Market tomorrow with Pauline, and then a Day of Art. Maybe soup. Pauline and her husband have a very nice dog, he's a good fella who could wear Sherbet as a corsage. The night holds promises; the farmers may be out picking in their fields even now, some rise at three in the morning to bundle carrots and Swiss chard. Stir your dreams, wrap them in endeavor. Good night.
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