I like to think that I'm a pretty good cat mummy. I might not be, but I think I'm okay. I've managed to keep Lucifer alive and healthy for the last three years. Long may that remain.
So, today was vet day. Lucifer's annual check up.
I have dreamed that when I take my cat to the vet, all goes well. In my mind, he easily slips into his carry cage and goes into the vets without a whimper. Then he's nice to the vet. He's given a once over. The vet trims his toenails, places him gently on the scales to weight him, and then, he gets his annual vaccination. then he slips into his carry cage and comes home without a peep.
Well, some of this happened.
He was corralled into his cage easily. I didn't give him a chance to complain - he was scooped up and put into the cat box without too much fun. Not being given the any inkling of this happening was a good thing.
He was fine in the car. He's always fine in the car. The odd cry, but that's it.
Then we parked just up the road from the vet.
I got him out of the car.
Yoooowwwwwwllllllll!!
The 100 metre walk down Church Street was peppered with his cries. It sounded like I was slitting his throat.
We made it into the vet's reception area.
Yoooowwwwwwllllllll!!
He was asked to keep it down as we sat down in reception. Or more to the point, he was placed on a chair in his carrier, and I sat on the floor so he could see me, which seemed to calm, him down a bit. Well, that and the very large pitbull who came out of the office kept him in line, going up to his cage for a good look. That shut him up.
After a few minutes, the vet came out to get us.
"Are you Lucifer's Mum?"
"Yes."
The vet was lovely. She also looked like she was twelve.
We had a chat about what the lad needed done. I said that he needed his annual shot, and if she could, maybe trim his front toenails. He's also been losing a bit of hair on his tummy.
I'd taken a couple of photos of the area, in preparation for the fact that the vet would have no chance of having a good look at the area without sedating him. As I told her the area wasn't red, raw or bleeding, she wasn't too worried. Keep an eye on it. It might just be a bit of stress.
So, she took him in his carrier to do the work. No need for me to fret over his bad behaviour. The vet said she also had a salty cat - sometimes it's easier if you don't know what they get up to.
They came back 5 minutes later. She managed to give him the injection. No nails. No weighing. No check up. No look at his bald tummy.
It appears his notes read, "The cat is an arsehole. Very salty. He will take off your arm. "
Somehow, she'd got him back in his cage.
He looked triumphant.
Ten minutes later, after a quiet trip, we got home.
He was fed his dinner, and for a treat, some cat pate, which is the equivalent of cat crack. He rewarded me for the trip by upending half of his litter tray onto the tiles while taking a dump.
As he's now asleep on his blanket on the bed, it can't have been that traumatising.
Thank goodness that's over for another year.
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