If the local cat vets weren’t such greedy exploiters, I’d go to one. As it is, every time I take a cat in to the doctor I am stuck in the waiting room with these damn dogs. I will never understand what makes people want to own and curate a giant, huffing, woofing, whining, leash-tugging piece of meat that sashays up and pesters every living thing in its vicinity. This one looked sort of wolfy; I thought his owner was German because she kept saying (futilely) “Setz!”, but no, she was just a regular dumb American blonde. The dog went into a crisis of honking and howling and deafening barking every few minutes, whereupon she would pat and cosset it, carefully teaching the dog the optimum way of getting attention.
For some reason, other people in the waiting room kept carrying on about what a pretty dog he was, handsome boy, yada yada. I had a carrier with a sick cat in it on my lap and I was just about ready to rip off a head, only I couldn’t choose which one.
I finally uttered a mild blasphemy and went out in the corridor where people usually wait for animals that are in the back getting a blood draw, claw clip or whatever. A dizbang woman with a cell phone took a break from exhorting her long suffering husband to look at this or that picture on the wall and began to exclaim over the goddam dog and take its picture. The husband finally remarked quietly to me that the dog seemed excited about something.
“There’s nothing wrong with that dog that a twelve-gauge wouldn’t cure,” I said.
He looked a little astonished. Oh well.
I was not in a mood to be charitable. The day before we’d been slammed with a dirty dawn snow storm that paralyzed the commute and gutted my business, and the next morning, as soon as I had my eyes entirely open, I saw that one of Mr. Ferguson’s was shut. On further inspection, it was red, a little swollen, and weeping a little white goop. I have had this happen to an eye. It isn’t fun.
Fergie has just turned out to be my delicate cat. I love him so much I could cry sometimes.
Naturally the only appointment the vet had came in the exact middle of the time I had free before work, so I ran through the gym like an insane person, came home, grabbed the cat, and turned up at the vet’s wearing this visor hat
and this pair of pants:
Just what I happened to grab in my half stupor, but as soon as I told the vet that the presence of three new cats in the house might have something to do with Fergie’s ailment, she must have thought she had caught a live one. It was never my intention to become a crazy cat lady, but suddenly, standing there in my feline-themed attire, with unbrushed hair, smelling faintly sweaty and sporting a torn grunge-plaid cardigan that I usually throw over my gym gear, I realized I had gotten there for all public purposes.
“How is he on his other meds?” asked the vet, someone I hadn’t seen before — a sweet, gentle woman, but a little, well, formal. “Did he tolerate the Prazosin? I see that was his last visit.”
“Yeah, it just made him horny.” I said. “He kept mounting his wife.”
“Um… I’d never heard of that,” she said with a slightly glazed smile.
“Known side effect,” I assured her. “I looked it up. Wikipedia.”
Fergie had no damage to his actual eye — as two applications of expensive stain informed us — and might have just gotten something in it, or gotten a claw to the eyelid, who knew, but I left with an even more expensive tube of antibiotic cream and instructions to put him in a stiff collar so he couldn’t rub it. Good luck with that. As soon as the Cone of Shame was on him he began to back frantically around the room with a panicked expression, and showed no signs of running down until he reached exhaustion. I took the collar off and hoped for the best. He lets Mrs. Catmium-Ferguson do all his grooming anyway.
News as I get it.