One Fat Cat With a Blog

Oh, good news today, folks! I am due for my Rabies vaccines at the vet. In case you haven't noticed, I hate going to the vet. It’s embarrassing. First of all, like always, the receptionist who witnessed my one little meltdown in the lobby will make a point to tell the new receptionist all about me. One time. I had one little lapse of character in the waiting room...a dog came in and barked something in Great Dane and I climbed up on Dad’s hat. One little freak out and I’m labeled a nutcase! As usual, I'll get rushed into the examining room to avoid an anticipated loss of composure and they'll send in the 98 pound vet tech to get my measurements. Okay. The 98 pound vet tech can never get a handle on all of me at once. We look ridiculous, she always nearly drops me and it’s humiliating. Why they subject me to these things I will never understand.


Then, the vet will come in. Oh, yes, and if I'm lucky, it will be my favorite one in the practice! Last time I was there, not only did she poke and grope and prod me, but she immediately started the “fat cat” rant. Oh, and then, I had to spend a full day with this lady! She had the nerve to put me on a diet! Hmmpf. Well, I sat in the hospital through her lunch and snacks…and apparently, her NutriSystem meals were delayed or something because that McDonald’s lunch and the Nutty Bars were surely not part of her diet plan. Somebody else needs to give old Jennie a call besides Frito, let me tell you.

Of course, since I'm not exactly a featherweight kind of kitty cat, they'll bring in not one, but two, extra vet techs to control me during my shot. Oooohh. I'm a mean one. They'll all grab me like I'm going to go Cujo on them or something--I won't move a muscle--and they'll feel like idiots...been there done that. It's really not as funny as it used to be, you know?

Wonder what the practicing moneymaker, a.k.a., the Vet, will find wrong with me today. Think my weight is too obvious? Gee, I wonder if they'll change my diet plan? That's been working so well for them. Well, I've decided that I'm not going without a fight today. I think I'll grab onto the front door with all four paws, then I'll refuse to get into the van, then I'll insist on sitting on the human's lap with my paws around her neck, and, ah, what the heck, I may just climb up onto her head for fun in the lobby...even if there isn't a dog...you know for old time's sake.

Vets. Phooey. Frito the cat is no lab rat....my new motto, like it?

Let me ask you something, do you know the function and purpose of the vet? Webster's Dictionary has defined the word Veterinarian as a person qualifed to practice veterinary medicine. This lead me to wonder the definition of veterinary medicine, as according to good old Daniel Webster....veterinary defines a term which means: of, relating to, practicing or being the science and art of prevention, cure or alleviation of disease and injury in animals and especially domestic animals.

Uh, let me get this straight....a veterinarian practices preventing, curing and alleviating disease and injury in us domesticated critters as a career....so, then the financial livlihood of a veterinarian depends on them finding issues in us to prevent, cure and alleviate, right? I am putting my health, happiness and wellbeing into someone's hands who gets paid to practice their art on me? Who signed me up to be a lab rat? I may be stupid, which I doubt, but, if I only get paid to fix and prevent illnesses and such, then I would imagine that if I looked hard enough in any critter, I could find something to prevent and alleviate in order to make that next house payment.

Frito is a cat--not a rat. I will no longer be someone's practice dummy.

It took me nearly two days to regain composure after hearing that it’s time for me to head to the vet again. Thank goodness it did not affect my appetite. Anyway, I am almost over the feeling of dread about that finally. THEN, yesterday morning, the one they call Mom thought she spotted a flea-on ME no less. Thank you, smelly old dog who has to go outside 30 times a day. You go outside and I somehow get the blame for the flea. I’m sure it wasn’t really a flea, but do they ever listen me? Yeah, right. Spring is here in Ohio-and out comes the first dose of flea medicine since November. Who gets it first? Better yet, who do they catch first? Yep. The fat cat. Everybody always picks on the fat cat. If there is anything that I dislike as much as going outside—it’s this flea stuff. First they have to hold me down. Degrading. Then, there is always some “I can’t find his shoulder blades, can you?” line of hardy har hars. Oh, yeah, the humans are a riot. At least, when I’m finished (passively, of course), I get to watch them try to put it on Lea. She is a complete psychotic. All of those forgotten, wild, outside cat characteristics come out. She becomes the little fireball of claws and teeth that we met and originally voted to throw back outside. I wished for popcorn. Now, this scene is a riot. Lea is about 8 pounds and they can’t do a thing with her. Later today, they’ll spot Gina and I’ll hang out to watch another show. Gina has agression issues. But, I’ll talk about that later. Fleas. On ME? Please.

Okay. I'll admit it. I hate going to the vet. Actually, I hate going outside. Newsflash, humans, if I hate going outside, the trip outside to get to the vet just may make me a little more than temperamental. To top off the fact that I hate getting to the vet, I have some other more embarrassing issues with the place. See, a couple of years ago, one of them (and she isn't so petite herself) suggested that I lose a few pounds and I haven't really followed my diet plan for a while now and I know there are going to be all the fat cat jokes and snickers and stares. It's just humiliating. Yes, I weigh 23 pounds, give or take a hairball, but I am mostly a MAINE COON. I'm not supposed to be a little lap cat. It's just not in my genes. And then there is also the fact that they have me "labeled" as a freak-out risk on my chart. That's like my permanent record in this world and they go and make little red sticky notes everywhere because of one teensy weensy little loss of composure a couple of years ago. I sort of flipped out a little bit once in the waiting room while we were in line waiting to pay bill. A dog walked in, barked something in Great Dane and I climbed up onto my Dad's head. It was a one time thing. Dad's a big guy, he handled it. It should not have been the defining point in my veterinary office behavior background. Out there for everyone to see. Horribly embarrassing. Now, I hear I have to go next week. I'll let you know how it goes.