Chip Goes to the Vet

HISSSSSSSSSS!

RAYYYWWWRRRR!

GRRRRRRR!

Chip expresses his displeasure before the vet and his assistant even get the top off his cozy cat carrier. He has, in fact, been growling since we entered the veterinarian's office. His eyes are glassy but his reflexes are undiminished as heavily gloved hands try to lift him from the carrier onto the scale. He hisses, spits, snaps, and the assistant retreats to fetch a towel: the key ingredient for a kitty burrito.

An hour earlier, I had my good, sweet kitty perched on the forbidden kitchen table. He wrestled against me as I tried once, twice, three times to slip the tiny pink sedative pill into his mouth. In the end, I sat on him and used a stream of water to force it down. The chunky string of pink drool on the kitchen floor mocked me, and I could only hope he'd ingested enough of it to mellow him out a little bit. He sat in the kitchen and watched me finish making my cake, then ambled into the living room, stumbling slightly. Feeling at once triumphant and guilty, I cleaned the kitchen then scooped him onto my lap so we could cuddle until the dreaded car ride to the terrible place where they'd do awful things to my poor little cat.

The assistant drapes the raspberry-hued towel over the snarling mass that is my supposedly-sedated Chipper. Alas, he's too agitated to succumb to swaddling - so out comes the cat claw. This giant set of netted tongs completely encompasses Chip and effectively neutralizes him. The assistant lifts him from his carrier, gently shakes him further into the claw and good-naturedly teases him as he gnaws on the thick green net that is stretched taut over the metal frame. He's squashed helplessly on his side, then flipped over like a fried egg and subjected to his two overdue vaccine injections. He growls more as the vet listens to his hammering heart and is too angry to express any gratefulness when the hated claw dumps him into his carrier.

I'm sure he'll hate me when we get home. I drugged him; took him to his version of hell; and let strangers trap then stick him. To my great surprise, he staggers out of his carrier, looks up to me and seems to say, in his stupor, "Pet me, Mom." He follows me to the bathroom as I get ready to go out to dinner and, when I get home, climbs into bed with me and, still a little woozy, stays close all night long.