It was just getting to the point when I was sure E had forgotten about my annual vet appointment. Somewhat remarkably for me, I hadn't been subjected to the trauma in over a year, and I was quite happy to keep it that way. But no, she had to remember.
She put me in a bad mood to start with because she didn't feed me as soon as she got home. She oughta know that I require sustenance the moment she arrives. It's been all day, and I'm starving. After all, she doesn't go all day without eating.
So then she stuffs me into the cage and I know something's up. She doesn't have a suitcase, so I know we're not going to the island (thanks to the cat gods). So where then? Oh $#*&, the VET!
First up there's a stupid teeny weeny pug-faced dog yapping at me in the waiting room. That didn't help my mood. It made me grumpy and irritable.
Oh all right, it made me foul. I was absolutely the devilcat from hell.
But no self-respecting feline should ever put up with being prodded and poked and having a light shone in your eyes and jabbed with a big needle and weighed -- how humiliating!
So I growled and I hissed and I scratched and I spat and I growled and I hissed and I scratched and I spat and I . . .
Dr C will probably never talk to me again.
As punishment, she has recommended E take me to an eye specialist AND go on a diet.
There is nothing wrong with my eyes, thank you very much, I can see perfectly well. So what if one of them has changed colour? It still works. (Seems Dr C thinks I should have something called a bilateral retinal exam.) The strange thing is that it seems to have little to do with the colour-change.
And as for the diet . . . well all I can say is that E has tried that before . . . she keeps threatening me with a diet, but never follows through. She's shown she's extremely susceptible to my 'pleading' when it comes to food.
I've got her wound around my little finger.
Bet I can make her forget about the eye doctor. Whoever heard of an animal opthamologist anyway?
PS: For once no urinary issues -- woo hoo!