Thursday, May 17, 2007

The Vetrinarian Horror Show : This is not for the squeamish. Not for the faint of heart.

One year ago, Alex had an appointment with the vet at 9am. Tom and I were naive. We did not anticipate Trouble.
  • 8:00 am : We chase Alex around the sofa. Tom grabs Alex and tries to jam him into the cat cage. Alex is a blood-thirsty razor-clawed scrapper in the face of adversity. He spread-eagles his legs, giving himself the circumference of a manhole cover.
  • 8:15 am : I put on my blacksmith gloves along with a full-face shatter-resistant helmet. We wrestle the cat into the cat cage. Alex has puffed himself up so his fur stands on end. He is a dragon in a catsuit.
  • 8:30am : We haul Alex, incarcerated in his cat cage, out to the car. Alex howls a rock-anthem length compilation of ten decibel caterwauls that unroll into wails and finish on notes of pathetic desperation.
  • 8:35am : Alex flings himself against the sides of his mobile jail cell. He is a wildman. The whole cage skids around on the backseat under the force of his body blows.
  • 8:40am : Tom breaks out in a rash. He is allergic to cat splooge and Alex snotted all over him.
  • 8:45am : Alex manages to wrench open the top of the cat cage. He hurls himself around our moving vehicle. He sheds wide swaths of fur. The fur floats in the air and sticks to the seats.
  • 8:50am : We park. We cannot open up the car doors lest Alex escape. People walk by and stare at us through our steamed up car windows. Tom and I crawl over the seats and each other in frenzy to recapture our crazed slobbery balding animal.
  • 9:05 am : We enter the veterinarian building. We are both sweaty, bloody and covered with clumps of fur. Tom has a blotchy rash and a torn shirt. I am wearing one blacksmith glove. Alex is limp in his cat cage. The receptionist glares at us. She knows we are Not. Good. Pet. Owners.
  • 9:06 am :"How did it go with cute little Alex getting here this morning?" the receptionist asks pertly, her animal-rights-activist eyebrows lost in her hairline.
    "How did it go with the Bay of Pigs, Fuckface. Thanks for asking." I reply. Quietly though. I'm pretty sure she didn't hear.
Tomorrow is Alex's annual exam. Tom is currently in Montreal, so I'm flying solo on this one. I'm preparing right now for the morning. Carb-loading, meditation and working on devising a little scheme. Plus making sure my last will and testament is in order.
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