One Fat Cat With a Blog

I love the crazy cat lady—I do. She buys me cat food, she tosses me the occasional black olive, I get Blueberry Muffins on my birthday…all around, she’s an okay human. However, she has these idiot moments that only Gina, my psycho cat roommate, and I seem to understand.


Today, for example, she scheduled Max the Hound from Hell for his vet visit at a time when she would have to take him by herself. Solo. A-L-O-N-E. The other cats and I knew she’d be sorry. I get a bad rap for the one time (yes, I said one time) that 25 pounds of Frito climbed onto Dad’s Bengal’s hat in the checkout lobby. I realize it was on his head, but at the time it seemed like the safest thing to do. Gina gets a bad rap for using Dad’s shoes as a litterbox. Lea shredded the “big boned” vet during her first visit and nearly knocked herself unconscious by jumping into the window when somebody walked the vet’s house parrot by the exam room door. Fluffy D’Tail is…well, he has a head full of stuff –n-fluff that inhibits rational thought and the vets have labeled him ‘the sweetest cat in the world”. We all have had bad vet stories—except Dum Dum Fluff. Another story for another day. We knew that the Max-at-the-vet experience would not be pretty—and I nearly lost 10 hairballs in my fits of laughter at the crazy lady’s depiction of the story.

When she first walked in the receptionist asked that she put The Face of Stupid, A.K.A. Max, on the floor scale. After she got him out of the cat food displays, the weighing of the devil dog went off without a hitch. 47 pounds of stupid hound dog---that’s what $150 donation at the pound will buy you. Well—no great surprise to you intelligent felines out there, but the vet visit went downhill from there.

First, the vet was running behind because they had had to double team to field some unexpected emergencies. During the 15 minute wait in the examining room, The Face of Stupid had to relieve himself—and dropped two 50 pound coonhound sized stink-deposits. Mom remained calm and reached for the towels and sanitizer. Towel dispenser empty. Oh, crap. (Literally.) Never daunted, she reached for the tissue box. There were two (about the size of each deposit). Stress began to surface. A few minutes later, the deposit was cleaned up—but the aroma lingered. I was rolling by this point. Even Gina has never made the vet staff fumigate the examining room! Mom said it worked out because she had forgotten to take a “sample” and she was able to retrieve it later when requested. (I would have loved to have seen her taking a “sample” to the vet. Where exactly does one store such a sample to carry to vet-land?)

With the poop issue behind her, she was ready for the vet tech. So was Max—in true Dino-from-the-Flintstones style, he vaulted himself across the room onto the technician, thoroughly covering her in Max slobber and drool. (Yuck). The vet came in—and before the tech could warn her, Max had apparently vaulted from the floor onto the poor woman—sending her eyeglasses flying. Luckily, Max didn’t really want to give her kisses—instead, he wanted to taste the stethoscope dangling from her neck. I would have paid to have seen the crazy cat lady’s face by this point. I’d even go be ridiculed by the fat vet who calls me fat to hang out in the room for that one.

To give The Face of Stupid his four vaccinations, the tech was handing out dog treats as a distraction. (Have I mentioned that Mister Max gets car sick?) They must have given the idiot 20 of them to get the shots administered. By that point, the Mom Human was becoming a little more stressed.

Poop issue resolved, vaccines done, lick impeded physical exam done—things were moving right along. Then I guess things came to a screeching (well, barking, growling and snarling) halt. Sir Doofus had to have blood drawn because he had taken a few months off from his heartworm preventative (because the human is lucky most days to remember her favorite color let alone long term once monthly meds.) ANYWAY—the blood draw wasn’t quite the glistening success. The Face of Stupid bit the vet. Now—let me tell you—I will openly criticize the weight of the vet…I may even pee on her table….but—NEVER—and I mean NEVER have the girls, Dum Dum Fluff, nor I bitten her. Bad things happen when you bite the vet. Sir Doofus met snout muzzle—and two extra techs to hold him down. The Mom Human’s stress level was nearing maximum strength—and the fun had only just started. (The other cats and I think the muzzle would make a good regular fashion accessory for the Hell Hound—but who listens to us?)

It was time to pay the price for taking care of precious animal friends. As human mom lady headed to the land of checkout via credit card—Max the Snout found a trash can in the food and supply room inches behind the checkout area. Mom retrieved someone’s half eaten lunch and three dead flowers from the hound snout—and tried to pay the bill. Max sniffed/drooled and licked all over a fellow vet hostage (i.e. the next lady paying to leave with her flea infested beagle)—then he discovered the lollipop basket on the top of the counter…and Sassy the vet's office cat in resident.

At last, Mom said relief set in. She was able to lead him to the car—unfortunately because he yaks up his toenails every time he sets paw in the car, he doesn’t go in willingly. Mom was exceptionally pleased that she was able to get him out of the car and into our front yard before he lost the pound of vet-distracting-dog treats on the mini-van floormats.

We can honestly say that Mom’s never come home and poured a rum and coke after taking one of us cats to the vet. We were rolling. Stupid human. Face of stupid dog….need I say more?