And the Cat Yowled On
This story ends with claw marks in my roommate's ass.
It begins a little less traumatic than that, at least for the humans. The cat would disagree, not that I can really blame him. Getting picked up beneath my underarms and dropped kicking and myaoing into a portable cat kennel would ruin my afternoon, too. But what were we supposed to do? He wouldn't go quietly, and at 23 pounds he's not exactly the kind of animal we could just shove into the kennel. So we flipped the kennel onto its side, Roommate Daren grabbed his top half and I pinned his back legs, and slowly, like a heap of scrap metal at the end of a crane, we lowered him into his cage.
“Myaoooow,” he wailed pitifully, a sound that was almost human, like he was trying to form his kitty lips into English so that I'd know exactly how he felt about this cruel and unusual punishment.
“I'm sorry, Dub!” I cried. “I'll get you a leash for next time.”
But the cat would not be pacified.
“Myaow. Myaow. Myaow. Myaow.”
Out the door, down the sidewalk, into the car, and on down to the veterinary clinic.
“Myaow. Myaow. Myaow. Myaow.”
And then he'd stop, for a moment, but only to pant. And let's face it, cat-panting is almost as disconcerting as cat bawling. And then again:
“Myaoooow...”
A broken record of misery.
Still, the ride down went off without a hitch, and so – shockingly – did the visit with the vet. I'm speaking for the cat at this point, not for myself. Because I was in the process of staring longingly, tearfully at my checkbook as the vet explained to me just exactly how fat, old, and alarmingly fat my cat had gotten.
“He's due for his vaccinations.”
“I see.”
Dub waow'd as he took two shots in his haunches.
“It looks like he's got some kind of ear infection. He'll need medication for that.”
“I see.”
Dub waow'd as the vet dug around in his swollen ears.
“He's got some bad gingivitis, so you might want to get his teeth cleaned.”
“I see.”
Dub waow'd around a mouthful of veterinarian finger.
“He's a 23-pound senior cat, so he runs a high risk of diabetes. If you notice that he's been drinking a lot of water and going to the bathroom often—”
“Aw, crap.”
“—Then we should probably get some blood work done on him.”
“...I see...”
Dub waow'd, just because it'd been a while since he'd told me how much he disapproved of this particular adventure.
I took the ear medicine and the vaccinations for the day, forgoing the blood work for a later week. Say, the week when I won the lottery. The veterinarian said his goodbyes, directed me to the desk where I could (cue up the world's smallest violin, please) pay the day's bills. Now it was just a matter of getting Dub back into his kennel, out to the car, and finally, back into the house.
But if saying were the same as doing, oh, think how many astronauts we'd have.
Daren grabbed Dub and I turned the kennel on its side, but he was ready for us this time. With back legs kicking and front claws scrabbling, Dub managed to latch his claws into Daren's chest, leg, and bum all at the same time. The cat said “no” - and, as anyone who's ever owned a cat will know, what the cat says nearly always goes.
“Screw it, give me your keys,” Daren snapped. “I'll just carry the fat bastard to the car.”
As I paid the bills and waved my month's fun-money goodbye, Daren struggled to get our feline Hutt into the car. He eventually succeeded, though not without significant damage to his chest, leg and neck regions. He may look more tiger than man these days, but hey, everything heals eventually. I joined him after a few minutes, and by the time I got to the car Dub looked more-or-less pacified – if by “pacified” you mean “silent and sulking.” (Which I do.) So I opened the front door, unlocked the back one, shoved the carrier inside, and then opened the front door again.
I did not know 23-pound balls of diabetic fluff could move so fast.
Dub tore across the aisle and into the space between my leg and the car seat. I threw my free hand forward to stop him, but have you ever tried to get a grip on a writhing, jerking, scratching juggernaut covered in slippery fur and possessing a diameter (I say diameter because he is more “round-shaped” than “cat-shaped” at this point) roughly equivalent to that of a bowling ball? Because if you haven't, then don't. It's impossible to find a handhold. There are no corners. And even if there were, the sickle-claw hooked into your calf will get you to release your hold pretty quick.
“Damn it, Dub!”
“Damn it, Rihga!”
“Catch him catch him catch him!”
But if saying were the same as doing...
Dub sprinted all of 5 feet before finding cover beneath a parked truck. He slunk in as far as he could go, wedging himself between the two front wheels and the curb and effectively walling himself in on three sides. He plopped down, panting from his daring escape and staring a challenge out at us, just daring us to try and penetrate his automotive fortress.
I looked down at the cat, then up at Daren. Silence reigned. I stared pathetically at Daren for a little longer, working my Sad Eyes to maximum effectiveness. More silence. Then finally, with a defeated sigh, Daren got down on his hands and knees and crawled, commando-style, toward our glaring escapee.
“Be ready to catch him when I chase him out,” he said.
I crouched, bringing up my hands as if I were catching a softball instead of a fleeing feline, but it turned out I didn't need to be quite so prepared. Because first Daren had to reach the cat, and then he had to try to grab him, but like I said before, no corners. Dub would not be gripped, but instead just took two steps to the side and sat down again, taunting him. Daren pursued, and Dub fled. And then Daren pursued some more, and then Dub fled again. It was a truly pulse-pounding chase scene, except that everyone was crawling under cars instead of leaping over them, and there were precious few explosions (unless of course you count Daren's cursing, in which case the whole thing was nothing but explosions).
This went on for some time, but finally Daren managed to push Dub far enough to the side of the truck that I was able to wrap my hands around his belly and drag him out into daylight, though he tried his damnedest to latch his claws into the cement. He eventually resigned himself to latching his claws in my arm, which was where they stayed until I pried him from my sad and bleeding flesh and handed him over to Daren. I've no doubt that his claws found plenty of new squishy places to dig into, but I didn't bother documenting them because I was too busy opening the car door and ushering Daren and our vanquished pet inside.
Second time turned out to be the charm, because I got into the car without a hitch as well, and in moments we were driving off again, lost in the sounds of the car radio, our pain-filled moans as we massaged our bleeding everything, and, of course, the afternoon's repeating dirge.
“Myaaaaow. Myaaaaow. Myaaaaaow...”
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