Rambo Kitty Returns

Well, today was take-Gabby-to-the-vet day. A day full of anxiety, anticipation, fear... and for Gabby it's probably worse. I started the day by taking out the carrier and leaving it out in the living room. This way there would be no surprises when I got home. Poor Izzy ran and hid, wouldn't even come out for her treat this morning, thinking it was for her. Don't worry Izzy, you have another week before it's your turn.

The day started off pretty good, and I even managed to leave on time for work. As I'm driving through Durham, I check my email at a stoplight. My wireless pops up and asks if I want to join the secure network "FBI Surveillance Van". Hmmm. Really? I hope that is someone's idea of a joke... otherwise we might need to work on our undercover basics. Then, a few miles later, I'm regularly cruising along when all of a sudden I see it in the road; a Triple F. If you don't remember the significance of the FFF, you can read about it here. There it was, in the road about 3 feet away from the curb, ready to meet me trunk-to-bumper. Been there, done that. Let's just say my swerving skills have greatly improved. And let's not even talk about the fact that it is the end of January and someone is just now throwing out their Christmas tree. Come on, people.

Moving on. Went to work, meetings, meetings, meetings... work, work, work... then it's time to come and collect the problem child. I am home just long enough to change clothes and grab the kitty, no extra time to spare. Of course she's waiting for me in the bedroom, rather than greeting me at the door, because she knows something is coming. I put her in the carrier and head out the door. Poor Izzy is hiding again just hoping it's not for her.

The car ride is only 15 minutes to the vet but it seems like a lot longer with Rambo kitty next to you getting warmed up. To say that Gabby does not like to be confined is an understatement; it's like it is crushing her very soul to be cooped up or isolated in any way. She's meowing incessantly and strategically testing different parts of the crate door with her teeth and paws for a way out. You know, like in Jurassic Park when they talk about the Raptors and how smart they are because they never attack the electric fence at the same place twice, because they are testing it for weaknesses... Ok, so it's not really like that at all, but somehow my brain made the correlation. Anyway, we arrive and check in, and go immediately into a room (shameless plug: I love my vet. I am never there more than 15 minutes). Thus begins the battle between me and the pissed off feline who refuses to come out of the crate (that she was SO adamant to escape from 5 minutes ago).

Each time I swear it gets harder and harder to get her out. There are no Ninja skills that make this any easier. Usually I end up grabbing her by the scruff in some way and sort of just pulllllling her out, meanwhile removing her paws from their positions bracing the doorway. Today, I pulled... and pulled... and pulled. She was still not out. So, I sort of just dipped the crate towards the floor so that gravity could help me out, and out she came (heh, points for me!). My celebration of this victory was quickly overshadowed by the realization that now pissed off kitty was inches away from escaping on the floor; not so great. In a split second I grabbed her, the whole time imagining the terror I just saved this office from if she got out of this room... Rambo kitty running from room to room, hissing and swatting her kung fu karate chops and turning small pups into lunch meat... I shudder at the thought.

The very nice technician comes in to get her weight, and we somehow manage to pry her claws out of my shoulder long enough to put her on the table. I can't blame her really, I mean I never enjoy finding out how much I weigh. And again, we forego getting her temperature. Smart move lady, if you want to keep your fingers. I sit back down with her to calm her down while we wait for the vet. She's pretty calm and actually only hisses at me once while I'm petting her. And in comes the doc, vet-tastic man that he is. I pry her away from me once again so that he can examine her. Cue the arse-showing kitty. She howls, she growls, and I'm pretty sure she snorted or something at one point. Then when he's done, he bends down eye level to talk to her. Oh please, you were doing so well, why would you literally stare the lion in the face after you've poked her with a stick?? I don't have veterinary insurance that will pay for your prosthetic face and I'm pretty sure you need your eyeballs to do your job, oh please please please Gabby don't kill him. Luckily, she doesn't. But she does warn him pretty good when he puts her back in the crate. As he goes to close the door, she busts out the kung fu karate chops in true Rambo kitty fashion and explodes rapid fire paw smack downs on the door while he's trying to lock it. Arse. Showing.

So, what's the grade for this year's visit? I'm going to have to go with C+ again. We are not where I'd like to be and certainly my OCD-need-for-perfection self is not happy with anything less than an A, but everyone survived with all of their appendages intact and no blood was drawn. That's a success in my book. Plus, he said that her weight had been pretty stable over the last few years, she was maintaining the same weight within a few ounces, and this was a very good thing. Ah! An 'A' in something!

At least one of us is good at weight management.