A Trip to the Vet
Trips to the vet are even more nerve-wracking then trips to the doctor because you are dealing with an extremely unhappy animal who has no idea what is going on. Getting my cat into the carrier is an experience, sort of like trying to squeeze a car into a jar of applesauce. If a car could be really pissed off and scratch the shit out of you. I have tried wrapping the cat in towel, and other tried and true techniques which others swear by, but the result is always the same: befuddled and angry cat, exhausted and injured owner.
I haven't taken my cat to the vet in about seven years. I guess this makes me a horrible pet-owner, but I have indoor cats that lie around all day and play with lint. Not exactly a life-threatening environment. So I am not used to the holy terror that is the vets' waiting room. Imagine if you will, a room filled with frightened animals, all barking, meowing, and hissing in some kind of dischordant ode to panic and chaos. It is pretty clear that some of these animals know exactly why they are there, and are not thrilled at the prospect of what is about to happen to them. Then imagine sitting in this room for over an hour. These are what good times are made of. They should really provide a bar, or at least a complimentary shot of whisky to the pet-owners.
After we were finally brought into the examination room, they weighed my cat and then felt it necessary to have me hold him down while they took his temperature. For some bizarre reason Franklin was none too happy about having a thermometer shoved up hs ass and put up quite a fight. The nurse (or whatever she is called in vet-speak), said, "Oh, I had better get some help!" as though it was unusual for a pet to be so put off by this obviously delightful experience. So two vet-nurses held my poor cat down while they took his temperature. He was rewarded by a cat treat which seems like a fair trade, sort of like being given a manicure after having your face ripped off. After his examination I was told he seemed fine and he gladly went back into his carrier, away from the horrilbe probing hands of his arch-nemisis.
I went for the full blood-workup recommended for aging cats, so I can have some piece of mind over his general health. So to recap: Having your cat raped by a thermometer, $165. Misplaced sense of pride over being a responsible pet-owner, priceless.