"It's times like this I'm glad I flunked out of dental school."
Pet Care Week continues in our household as I follow Give the Dog a Bath Day with Take the Cats to the Veterinarian Day. Today could be Clean the Chinchilla Cage Day, followed Clean the Aquarium Day, and finally Funeral for a Fish Day. The cats had nothing wrong with them, unless you count their general aloofness and propensity for puking. This was just a general checkup and booster shot.
In order to take the cats to the vet, I had to coral them into a pet carrier. We have two cats, Cleo, the slightly overweight and somewhat active one, and Charlie, the morbidly obese and shamefully sedentary one. They both hate their pet carrier like Cub fans hate being the only cursed baseball team left, and will do anything in their power to avoid imprisonment. This adds a sporting element to their capture, a dangerous element that thrill-seekers participating in safer animal-based sports like bear hunting or lion taming only wish they could experience.
They’re very good at hiding when they sense something wrong. In our old home, the one with free space instead of piece of furniture covering every wall, I ended up being 20 minutes late and one cat short to one of their appointments. One of them scurried away when I tried throwing them in their carrier and danged if I could find it. While vet poked the captured cat, I returned home to see if I could find the other one, and found it sitting on my office chair like it had been there the whole time instead of hiding and probably peeing in some cramped quarter only it knows.
This time I tried something smart; I locked both cats in the bathroom before touching their carrier. To draw them into the bathroom, I used their favorite toy as bait, Sparkly Thing on a Fishing Pole. It looks like an odd toy, but as it dances and shimmers erratically about the room, no cat can resist it. Or dog. Or Abbie. Once I locked the dog in her kennel and Abbie in her crib to keep them from scaring the cats, Charlie followed it right into the bathroom. Cleo though, possibly realizing that we don’t ordinarily play with the toy in the morning, sat and watched from a distance. I had to pick her up and throw her in the bathroom, shutting the door before Charlie could scamper out.
At this point my cover was blown, but the cats were already trapped so I didn’t care. I hauled the carrier upstairs, and opened the door to enter the bathroom. As soon as I cracked the door, one cat tried running out. I threw it back in, opened the door a little more, and caught the other cat on its way out. This process repeated a few times until Cleo managed to dig a claw deep into my finger. She ran away at that point, but Charlie, as is his wont after exerting any physical effort, sat on the floor accepting his fate. I pushed the carrier in, shut the door before he changed his mind, and collapsed on the floor screaming words that made me glad Abbie isn’t talking yet.
Once I realized I’d survive the vicious cat attack, I hunted down Cleo. With few places left for her to hide, I quickly found her huddled behind the couch. I moved the couch, wrapped her in a towel to keep those claws sheathed, and threw her in the carrier with a level of disdain usually only seen when late-night talk show hosts comment on obviously underqualified Supreme Court nominees.
The vet appointment went well except that they were running about 15 minutes behind schedule. Keeping a toddler entertained for an extra 15 minutes, especially one who’s three hours removed from her last wake time, can make corralling suspicious cats look easy. I brought a couple toys to help pass the time, and the vet’s office had a few toys to keep her entertained. It had a trash can with a lid that Abbie liked to spin and I liked to close my eyes and pretend it was sanitary for her to touch it. It had a pet scale, a 2x4-foot rectangle elevated above the ground, that Abbie like to climb on and off of in blatant disregard of the sign hung above declaring “Parents, this is an expensive piece of medical equipment and not a toy. Do not allow your children to play on it!”* Best of all, it had a giant wall poster with dog breeds from around the world that she could point to and I would read. It was like a giant book, but without pages or flaps.
The cats took the appointment better than Abbie did, and we were home in 30 minutes. I released the cats from their carrier, not sure what kind of behavior to expect. I thought I’d find The World’s Biggest Cat Defecation on the floor/sofa/Ellie’s side of the bed within a couple hours, but they behaved themselves as best I can tell. Charlie actually seemed more affectionate than usual, possibly as his way of pleading that we never do that again. Cleo though disappeared for most of the rest of the night, so I may want to check behind the couch.
* I had permission from the vet’s nurse for her to climb on it. They just don’t want children to jump up and down on it, which isn’t a problem for Abbie as long as it’s not a bed or a trampoline.
In order to take the cats to the vet, I had to coral them into a pet carrier. We have two cats, Cleo, the slightly overweight and somewhat active one, and Charlie, the morbidly obese and shamefully sedentary one. They both hate their pet carrier like Cub fans hate being the only cursed baseball team left, and will do anything in their power to avoid imprisonment. This adds a sporting element to their capture, a dangerous element that thrill-seekers participating in safer animal-based sports like bear hunting or lion taming only wish they could experience.
They’re very good at hiding when they sense something wrong. In our old home, the one with free space instead of piece of furniture covering every wall, I ended up being 20 minutes late and one cat short to one of their appointments. One of them scurried away when I tried throwing them in their carrier and danged if I could find it. While vet poked the captured cat, I returned home to see if I could find the other one, and found it sitting on my office chair like it had been there the whole time instead of hiding and probably peeing in some cramped quarter only it knows.
This time I tried something smart; I locked both cats in the bathroom before touching their carrier. To draw them into the bathroom, I used their favorite toy as bait, Sparkly Thing on a Fishing Pole. It looks like an odd toy, but as it dances and shimmers erratically about the room, no cat can resist it. Or dog. Or Abbie. Once I locked the dog in her kennel and Abbie in her crib to keep them from scaring the cats, Charlie followed it right into the bathroom. Cleo though, possibly realizing that we don’t ordinarily play with the toy in the morning, sat and watched from a distance. I had to pick her up and throw her in the bathroom, shutting the door before Charlie could scamper out.
At this point my cover was blown, but the cats were already trapped so I didn’t care. I hauled the carrier upstairs, and opened the door to enter the bathroom. As soon as I cracked the door, one cat tried running out. I threw it back in, opened the door a little more, and caught the other cat on its way out. This process repeated a few times until Cleo managed to dig a claw deep into my finger. She ran away at that point, but Charlie, as is his wont after exerting any physical effort, sat on the floor accepting his fate. I pushed the carrier in, shut the door before he changed his mind, and collapsed on the floor screaming words that made me glad Abbie isn’t talking yet.
Once I realized I’d survive the vicious cat attack, I hunted down Cleo. With few places left for her to hide, I quickly found her huddled behind the couch. I moved the couch, wrapped her in a towel to keep those claws sheathed, and threw her in the carrier with a level of disdain usually only seen when late-night talk show hosts comment on obviously underqualified Supreme Court nominees.
The vet appointment went well except that they were running about 15 minutes behind schedule. Keeping a toddler entertained for an extra 15 minutes, especially one who’s three hours removed from her last wake time, can make corralling suspicious cats look easy. I brought a couple toys to help pass the time, and the vet’s office had a few toys to keep her entertained. It had a trash can with a lid that Abbie liked to spin and I liked to close my eyes and pretend it was sanitary for her to touch it. It had a pet scale, a 2x4-foot rectangle elevated above the ground, that Abbie like to climb on and off of in blatant disregard of the sign hung above declaring “Parents, this is an expensive piece of medical equipment and not a toy. Do not allow your children to play on it!”* Best of all, it had a giant wall poster with dog breeds from around the world that she could point to and I would read. It was like a giant book, but without pages or flaps.
The cats took the appointment better than Abbie did, and we were home in 30 minutes. I released the cats from their carrier, not sure what kind of behavior to expect. I thought I’d find The World’s Biggest Cat Defecation on the floor/sofa/Ellie’s side of the bed within a couple hours, but they behaved themselves as best I can tell. Charlie actually seemed more affectionate than usual, possibly as his way of pleading that we never do that again. Cleo though disappeared for most of the rest of the night, so I may want to check behind the couch.
* I had permission from the vet’s nurse for her to climb on it. They just don’t want children to jump up and down on it, which isn’t a problem for Abbie as long as it’s not a bed or a trampoline.
posted by Matt at
9:58 PM
1 Comments:
very enjoyable reading
By
CINDY, at 12:24 PM
Post a Comment
<< Home