Rambo with a Vengeance

It has taken me a week to cool off in order to write this post. Last week it was that dreaded time of the year; time to take Gabby to the vet (aka invoke the spirit of Rambo Kitty for 20 terrifying minutes).

As per  usual, I scheduled Gabby’s appointment first. Seems to me it’s easier to get the problem child out of the way. So a few days before the appointment I got the carrier out of the closet to give the girls time to get used to it. Oh they knew what was coming. Poor Izzy hid all night the day I got it out. Meanwhile, here is what Gabby was doing when I got home from work on the day of the appointment:

That, my friends, is spite. To deliberately hurt, annoy, or offend. Gabby, Gabby, and Gabby. Catching her to put her in the crate wasn’t any trouble since she was happily smirking and laying right in front of it. But as soon as I picked her up she went from smirking to drop-and-slink in 2.5 seconds. Quick, shove the kitty in, remove paws from death grip on outside of crate, close door, ignore rude meowing and growling. Off we go. 

Of course, she does her best to pull and claw and bite her way through the crate door the entire car ride to the vet’s office. I realized later that this was the start of the pressure cooker, as each second ticked by she became more and more of a furious feline fury like hell hath no. Foreshadowing I think they call it. See, Mom? I did pay attention in English (sort of). 

When we arrive and walk in the waiting room, there’s a man standing there with his German Shepard puppy and his what looks to be 4 year old daughter. Now this little girl is one of those precocious children with no fear of strangers (or hissing, growling crates). She walks right up to the crate and starts asking me who is inside, what’s her name, oh I have a cat too her name is ____ (insert weird-obviously-chosen-by-a-child name here), and dear Lord she’s putting her hands through the slats in the crate. Hi there Dad, care to pay attention to your super cute little girl over here? She’s about to lose some fingers to Rambo Kitty’s kung fu karate chops. So finally they leave, hands intact, and they put us in a room. Here comes the fun part. Gabby has spent the last 20 minutes desperately trying to escape the plastic box prison, and now no amount of anything is going to get her out. Anything, that is, except me. I prepare myself for some resistance, and ready my ninja cat grabbing skills. I reach in, grab her by the scruff, and pull. Nothing happens. I grab a bigger handful and pull harder. Still nothing happens. This time I use my other hand to simultaneously move one paw at a time from blocking the doorway while pulling her scruff. We moved an inch. Finally I just had to go for it, pulling the scruff, moving paws, and dumping the crate towards the floor all at the same time. By the time she’s out I’m already sweating and the fur is a-flying. 

I try to calm her down from that tractor pull experience, and she’s emitting a steady stream of growls as she looks around the room. At the same time she’s clawing her way up and down my shoulders trying to figure out how to escape my ninja grip. Oh look, here comes the technician. Growling gets louder. Yes, hi, how are you, blah blah. Then she says “How’s Izzy doing today?” and I said, “oh honey, sorry but your day just got a lot worse. This is Gabby.” I swear you could see her face fall and her muscles tighten. Yes, my caution kitty is the one reserved as your last appointment of the day. You’re welcome. Anyway, we manage to get her weight (10.5lbs!) and it’s right back up to climbing my shoulder. Tech leaves, time to wait for the vet. Longest 5 minutes of.my.life. Rambo Kitty is so agitated at this point she is starting to make me a little nervous. Random hissing at me when I pet her (because she doesn’t realize it’s me) and whipping her head around to hiss AND growl in my face. Oh no she didn’t. After a stern talking to and possible mention of declawing, I’m happy to say that little display of agitation was not directed at my face again. 

Enter the vet. Always calm, always non-threatening. He knows she’s a caution kitty. We manage to pry her away from my chest and put her on the table to begin her exam. Now, all she was supposed to have at this visit was her rabies shot and annual exam. Want to place any bets on what she got? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Well let’s see… as soon as he had her on the table he had to scruff her, and she was trying her best to get her head around to bite a chunk out of his hand. So he decides to go ahead with the shot. Poor little vet tech has to scruff her now, and the vet reaches towards her rear to pinch some skin for the shot. Oh. My. Word. It’s like World War III started right there in that exam room. The minute he touched her back there she raised up on her hind legs, front paws swinging like Muhammad Ali out in front, and s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g her head off. Not once, but twice, because the first time we all jumped so much he let go of her and had to grab her again for the shot. Dogs were barking all over the building. Birds were evacuating nearby trees. Children in the park down the road were weeping. It was that tragic. Needless to say, I did not get charged for her annual exam because she didn’t get one. She showed her arse so much that he didn’t even attempt to examine her. He said “well, is she doing okay?” and I said yes; “okay, let’s just put her back in the crate.” This year’s grade? F is for FAILURE. Failure! I am so ashamed! This does not sit well with my Type A overachieving personality AT ALL. 

We get home and she pops out of the crate so excited like a cat who just caught Mighty Mouse. Rubbing against the crate, my leg, the table, the chairs, purring so loud I could hear her across the room. And then? She spends the entire next evening doing this:

Spite I tell you.