Dance de la Muerte

So the Dictator was throwing up, and not your usual hairball infested yak. So of course, like the Yuppie pet owners we are, Mark and I freaked out and booked her an appointment with the Vet.

Ahhh, the Vet. That yearly ritual to get shots. It was summer and we knew it was time. It was the unspoken, the elephant in the room, but more to the point we were dreading it.

I am not sure if it's because Mushu and Yuko aren't outside cats, but our yearly trip to the Vet turns our normally laid back cats into fur spewing, tsunami's of emotion. Oh sure, when you bring out the cat carrier it looks like a regular bag (thanks Mom!), but as soon as they get zipped in the crying starts. Not just a little crying, though, imagine that you are driving a nail into the cat's tail over and over - now you have the sound. This is why we make two appointments, one for each cat, so that we can both have a chance to savor this experience.

Yuko, however, is worse then Mushu (and yet, some how Mark always gets to take Mushu in, hmmm). Her screams when heard through the window of a car sound suspiciously like a small child being gagged and beaten. Which I can tell you elicits quite a few looks. This day was even better because it was 30 degrees outside and my a/c wasn't working, so I had to drive with the window down. The sound of wind coming in only upset her more, so now not only was she wailing she was doing it in a continuous siren chirp and trying to claw her way out of the bag.

By the time I got to the Vet, the 5 feet from the car to the front door seemed like an eternity because of the thrashing and crying. When we got inside I noticed there were scads of owners with lovely well-behaved animals sitting patiently waiting for their appointment. Not Yuko. I pulled her out of her carrying case to cuddle her, which I foolishly thought might calm her down. In a matter of seconds I was covered in so much of her hair it looked like I had had hormone injections. Nor did the cries stop. They just got louder. At this point the nice lady behind the desk hurriedly cleaned out one of the examination rooms and ushered my insane cat into it. I couldn't help, but notice the sad shaking of heads of the other people in the waiting room, while they simultaneous glowed with pride at the behavior of their own pet.

Once in the examination room, Yuko went straight to the sink, laid down, and would not come out. When the Vet came in she eyed him suspiciously and then tried to sink deeper into the sink. After the examination he took her to be weighted, which she just hated, and announced that she was only 3.5 lbs. I braced for the lecture on feeding her more. But, after taking a look at my sweat streaked, fur stewn face he thought better of it. So I loaded the Dictator back into the carrying case, went home, and had a drink.