My cat went to see the vet today. As trips to the vet go it wasn't too bad.
I asked for a vet who was good with stroppy cats. I was told they had somebody who fit the bill.
My last meeting finished, I gathered the lad up, put him in his crate, went down the road to the vet and waited.
He wasn't happy. He really didn't like the golden retriever sniffing around him (from two metres away).
We met the vet, a lovely young woman with a calm, sensible nature.
We weighed him in the crate, taking his weight as the difference. 6.1 kilos. He's a big, muscular boy, but he's not fat.
The lad, although not happy at all, appeared to comply with our wishes.
He didn't do the Tasmanian Devil impression.
He didn't scratch the vet.
He begrudgingly let her check his teeth.
He tolerated being wrapped like a burrito as he had his teeth checked.
He was okay with the vet giving him his annual shot and putting some flea, tick and worm stuff on his neck (better her than me - he hates when I do it)
And he climbed back into his crate and we went home.
And it was only when I was paying the $150 vet bill did I remember that I didn't wish him a happy gotcha day last week.
We've been together for five years now.
And he's still the best purchase I've ever made, even if he is sitting next to me demanding that I let him have my office chair to sleep on.
Happy birthday, mate. I'll give you your bed back now. Love, Mum.
Today's song:
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