Of all the things I had planned to do this afternoon (sleeping), it was not to spend over two hours in my carry case being poked and prodded by a bunch of strangers.
You'd think I go to the vet enough, without being dragged there when I'm perfectly fine. It's not like it's a treat for being good, or anything. (And I have been very good of late.) And it's not like we don't have a vet at the end of the street instead of a half-hour car-ride away. Sheesh!
So I get dragged to the Animal Emergency Centre -- right in the middle of a very pleasant dream, I might add -- and first up I'm forced to say hello to some grey matron-cat called Beth. She seemed OK, not sick at all. And as I've already said, I was fine. So why were we here?
And THEN Ellen tells me that the reason we're here is to see whether I'm a blood-match for Fox, who as I already mentioned in a previous post is sick and might need a transfusion.
Oh boy. That cowed me, because Lita was there too and she looked really sad. And Beth was being brave, so I let them take me away. No way was I going to be the pathetic scardey cat -- even though my heart was pounding a mile a minute and I couldn't help growling a bit. And then I heard Ellen tell them I could be vicious, which I thought was a bit rich when I was trying so hard.
They came over to my cage and checked me out, and although I only spat and hissed a little bit -- the tiniest amount -- they backed off pretty quickly. I couldn't help feeling rather pleased at that. Maybe it's worth having a bad reputation sometimes!
So they started on Beth first, and she just let them do whatever they wanted. They prodded and poked and shaved a patch of fur off! then stuck in the biggest needle you've ever seen and drew out some blood!
Well, that tore it, because no way did I want any of that to happen to me . . . yet I had to remember that Fox is sick and Lita is Ellen's and my friend . . .
In the end, it turned out that Beth was both a good match for Fox and, being bigger than me, a better size for donating blood. This meant the vet staff (who had been giving my cage a wide berth, because I'd growl at them if they came too close) persuaded Lita and Ellen not to have me tested. Despite my thinking them pathetic scardey cats, I confess I was rather relieved. I mean, I would have done it (scratching and biting), but I'd much rather not have a shaved patch on my neck for the next few weeks, thank you very much!
So I came home unscathed (and unshaved) after all that. Poor Fox will still have his surgery and Beth will donate blood if required. I'll keep you posted as to their progress, and give thanks to the cat gods for my deliverance.
Saturday, 18 August 2007
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Grey matron cat indeed! Little miss devilcat, I'll have you know I'm officially black-and-tabby. Not the old common black-and-white, not the equally common tabby-and-white. I may have manners, but that does NOT make me matronly.
PS I have to say I admire you for turning those nurses and vets yellow with cowardice. I've never seen people drip fear like that before. Mmm, must try it some time. Do you give lessons?
Black-and-tabby, black-and-scabby, how do I know what you are? You looked grey to me. But I'm sorry if I offended with the matron comment; it's just that you were so _mature_ in the way you let them manhandle you!
The secret to inspiring fear is to never be friends with anyone. Even your best friend is your enemy. Remember to draw blood every so often from your favourite human in all the world, and you'll have no problems with strangers.
Black-and-SCABBY? Black-and-SCABBY? You young upstarts are all the same. How do you know what I am? You're a cat, aren't you? You're supposed to know what other cats look like? Do you live with a big stupid blonde bimbo dog who thinks you are a little black dog when you are clearly a cat? No, you do not. Do you live with a smaller red-and-white rat-faced howling little shit of a dog who wants to eat your liver with a nice chianti and fava beans? No, you do not. You do not know the beginning of the word trouble. It begins with T, little miss devilcat. You have all the time in the world to contemplate said world, and to know what it is to be a cat, unmolested by stupid dogs. Very stupid dogs. And yet with all that time on your hands, you do not know my colours? Black-and-SCABBY indeed.
However, I do thank you for the tips -- you see, I have good manners -- but wonder if following said tips might endanger the chances of getting nice food. Favourite humans give tidbits. Nice, yummy tidbits. Nice, yummy tidbits that make you grow big and strong. Favourite humans rescue heroic cats from blonde bimbo dogs and little red-and-white rat-faced dogs that have very little going on between their ears. Did you know, for example, the word 'aristrocratic' when correctly spelt is 'aristocatic'. Some stupid dog no doubt inserted that redundant r. Arrrooof!
Well, if you recall, I was stuck inside a CAGE for the whole time and couldn't see squat!
As for nice food tidbits -- just get yourself a favourite human who's a pushover. That's what Ellen is. A total pushover. She gives me anything I ask for, ESPECIALLY when I'm mean to her. (She does it to get me to stop, see?) Just keep reading my blog and you'll never be the same cat again.
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