It's fun to rehash stories with the vet techs in your local vet clinic about dealing with the animals - like medicating, for instance. Medicating your pet. Hearing how your super-friendly cat scratched the hell out of the poor innocent tech, who was just doing her job. And how the poor innocent tech tried to wrap the cat like a burrito, and had two helpers, just to get some meds down the cat's throat. I, in turn, made this gal laugh by telling her how I shoved pills down Harriet's throat two years ago and nearly lost fingers in the process. For those who are not cat people, and have never had the pleasure of medicating a cat, let me enlighten you.
It sucks. Cats hate restraint, and they most definitely hate being forced anything. Even love and attention.
This poor innocent tech told me how "pleasurable" my cat was for the two days she was there. Meowing, or hollering, her protests. Scratching the techs that were attempting to medicated her. Swatting them. Hissing. Basically just shy of going for the jugular. And then I was regaled with the stories of Harriet and the cone. You know the cones they put around the heads so pets won't be dumb and lick their open wounds. Apparently, Harriet does a sort of a jackrabbit-type move and nearly chokes herself to death by trying to push it off with her back feet. Apparently death is preferable to not being able to lick her own ass. I was also asked about the cat litter I use. I told her I use Fresh Step, and she says, "Hmmm. Interesting." When I inquire, she says that Harriet has refused to use the provided litter box during her stay with them. Instead she turned her cage into a very large litter box, so that the nice kennel techs would have something to do when they got in in the mornings. And then, she even had to ask me to the back to get Harriet into the carrier to take her home today. I get in the back, and I'm definitely hearing one pissed off kitty. I get to her cage, and she's hunkered down, growling. Seriously, she was growling. The look in her eyes said, "F@#* off, bitch". I manage to get her in the carrier without incident - just vocal curses.
I get her in the car, only getting a few odd stares from strangers. The cat sounds like she's dying, that the world is ending, that I'm torturing her. And people stare. I stick her in the back seat and two seconds in, I smell something. Something bad. Somebody was just so freakin' happy to be going home that she pissed all over the carrier and even flung some on the seats. Yeah. I had to stop at PetsMart on the way home to get kitty bath wipes because I knew she'd be covered in her pee. Because why? It's FRIDAY the 13th. And, bathing a cat is extremely not fun. I value my sad little life, and I don't want to be found mauled to death because I was trying to clean my cat. I get home, with a loud, smelly kitty, while neighbors are staring out windows wondering why a cat was being tortured. I get out an old towel, and open the wipes and catch the cat before she bolts for the bedroom. I hold her by the scruff, and start wiping. By the time I was done, Ms. Harriet smelled like "herbal mint". With a hint of cat pee. A strong hint. The carrier is still sitting on the balcony, soaking in 409, hoping it will stop smelling of Eau d' Harriet. Since then she has bathed herself to her own content and I no longer smell cat pee the second she walks in the room. And yes, two days ago I was going to be evil and take pictures of a shaved butt. However, the vet didn't shave all that much hair off and well, it's a bit uglier than I thought, and I really don't think the world needs to stare at an abscessed anal gland. Although I do wish I had a picture of the look I was greeted with this morning. Oh man, if looks could kill, all of Natomas would be dead. Piles of human ash would be all that was left.
And if I survive, the next blog shall be about how I survived giving her the medication prescribed. I barely made it out alive two years ago. I'm going in this time with a healthy fear for my life.
It sucks. Cats hate restraint, and they most definitely hate being forced anything. Even love and attention.
This poor innocent tech told me how "pleasurable" my cat was for the two days she was there. Meowing, or hollering, her protests. Scratching the techs that were attempting to medicated her. Swatting them. Hissing. Basically just shy of going for the jugular. And then I was regaled with the stories of Harriet and the cone. You know the cones they put around the heads so pets won't be dumb and lick their open wounds. Apparently, Harriet does a sort of a jackrabbit-type move and nearly chokes herself to death by trying to push it off with her back feet. Apparently death is preferable to not being able to lick her own ass. I was also asked about the cat litter I use. I told her I use Fresh Step, and she says, "Hmmm. Interesting." When I inquire, she says that Harriet has refused to use the provided litter box during her stay with them. Instead she turned her cage into a very large litter box, so that the nice kennel techs would have something to do when they got in in the mornings. And then, she even had to ask me to the back to get Harriet into the carrier to take her home today. I get in the back, and I'm definitely hearing one pissed off kitty. I get to her cage, and she's hunkered down, growling. Seriously, she was growling. The look in her eyes said, "F@#* off, bitch". I manage to get her in the carrier without incident - just vocal curses.
I get her in the car, only getting a few odd stares from strangers. The cat sounds like she's dying, that the world is ending, that I'm torturing her. And people stare. I stick her in the back seat and two seconds in, I smell something. Something bad. Somebody was just so freakin' happy to be going home that she pissed all over the carrier and even flung some on the seats. Yeah. I had to stop at PetsMart on the way home to get kitty bath wipes because I knew she'd be covered in her pee. Because why? It's FRIDAY the 13th. And, bathing a cat is extremely not fun. I value my sad little life, and I don't want to be found mauled to death because I was trying to clean my cat. I get home, with a loud, smelly kitty, while neighbors are staring out windows wondering why a cat was being tortured. I get out an old towel, and open the wipes and catch the cat before she bolts for the bedroom. I hold her by the scruff, and start wiping. By the time I was done, Ms. Harriet smelled like "herbal mint". With a hint of cat pee. A strong hint. The carrier is still sitting on the balcony, soaking in 409, hoping it will stop smelling of Eau d' Harriet. Since then she has bathed herself to her own content and I no longer smell cat pee the second she walks in the room. And yes, two days ago I was going to be evil and take pictures of a shaved butt. However, the vet didn't shave all that much hair off and well, it's a bit uglier than I thought, and I really don't think the world needs to stare at an abscessed anal gland. Although I do wish I had a picture of the look I was greeted with this morning. Oh man, if looks could kill, all of Natomas would be dead. Piles of human ash would be all that was left.
And if I survive, the next blog shall be about how I survived giving her the medication prescribed. I barely made it out alive two years ago. I'm going in this time with a healthy fear for my life.
Harriet at her sweetest. Asleep.
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