A peek inside this weeks session between our cat, Little Man, and his therapist.
TP: So how did it go this week?
LM: Ahh, it was ok, I guess. Didnt exactly start great though. Had to get in the damn pet carrier (traveling prison cell would be more accurate) to go to the vet.
TP: What was so terrible about it?
LM: Well, first of all, dad always telegraphs his game plan with some over-the-top comment about how were going to go outside and have BIG FUN together. The last time I had big fun outside was when I was really young and climbed a tree. Dad thought I was stuck up there, so he climbs up too. Thing is, in his pathetic effort to reach me, he loses his balance, falls onto a lower branch, and cracks a rib. He limps into the house to whine to mom and I saunter down off the tree, no prob. That was big fun.
TP: Stay on topic, Little. The trip to the vet.
LM: Right. So anyway, he carries me downstairs mumbling about big fun and I can see hes got the prison cell all set up down theredoor open, ready to deposit me inside. So, of course, I go into high resistance mode so he knows I know whats up. Then its head first into the little sweatbox. I mean, look at me. Im thirty pounds of mansome being stuffed into a kitty carrier? Please!
TP: OK. So you get to the vet and
LM: Not so fast. First, we have the ride over. I, of course, immediately go into woe-is-me-whining-mode. He starts babbling back at me about how well only be at the doctors for a few minutes, its no big deal, and then the clincher Maybe your girlfriend will be there.
TP: Your girlfriend?
LM: Yeah. Theres this one tech there that thinks Im hot calls me her stud muffin. Shes pretty cute, I admit, but still.
TP: So was she there?
LM: Dude. Slow down. Were still on the ride part. Youll love this. So when my dads used up all his conversation points, he turns on the radio. I mean, I love the guy, but its ALWAYS talk radio, either sports (Yawn) or one of those hard case conservatives (Boorring). Im telling you, doc. The ride over is torture.
TP: OK. So you finally arrive.
LM: Right. And get this. Not only is Miss Stud Muffin not there. Neither is my vet. Turns out the damn guy broke his leg or something and hes out for a month. Talk about milking an injury! A month? Break your leg, you get a cast and get back to work. I mean, Im looking at dad, like, what kind of loosey-goosey operation you bringing me to here?
TP: Youre wandering again.
LM: OK. Anyway, the girl behind the desk says they have an open exam room ready for me so we go right in. This, by the way, is S.O.P. because they know I HATE WAITING. Made that clear in one of my first visits. You shoulda been there, doc. This one time I threw the mother of all hissey fits because we had to sit in the waiting room FORever. I mean, cmon. Im sitting out there in a portable prison while a bunch of stupid dogs are bumping around, like Oh boy, were gonna see the doctor. Dopes. So excitable. And of course, you KNOW they have to come stick their big wet noses against my carrier. Gave a big German Shepherd a heck of a nosebleed one day. Hell think twice before sticking that big schnoz against my screen door again.
TP: Little man, please.
LM: Anyway, when we finally got into an exam room that day and they let me out, well, lets just say I made my position clear. From then on, we go right in.
TP: So, why did you have to go to the vet this week?
LM: Ah, just for a nail clipping. No biggie. Like I said, the head man usually does it, but since he was dogging it (excuse the pun) with the broken leg, some little tech girl comes in, along with a young buck techie who I immediately make as the muscle. Normally, Id have raised a little hellwhat with no doc, a green trainee and a bouncer-typejust to establish cred, but, to tell you the truth, I was feeling so darn good, I let it go.
TP: That was very mature on your part, Little. Perhaps were making some progress here after all.
LM: Dont hurt yourself patting your back, doc. I like these little chats of ours, but the reason for my playing nice that day was totally a function of the weigh-in. See, whenever we go to the vet, I get weighed. Mom and dad are beside themselves with guilt for loving me too much, and feeding me that way, as a youngster. Between you and me, they shouldnt be. I mean, look at me. Im a hunk o hunka burnin. But anyway, they live and die by how I tip the scales. And that afternoon I was half a pound down, baby. Dad was so damn happy I just couldnt spoil the moment for him.
TP: So all-in-all, it wasnt such a bad start to the week?
LM: Nah, not really. Besides, much as I hate going to the vet, I LOVE coming home. Dad lets me do that dog thing on the ride home. You know, when you stand on the car seat, stick your nose out the window, breeze in your face, smellin the roses.
Everybody looks at me like Im some sort of movie star all gaga and smiling and saying how handsome I am. Livin large, doc. Livin large.
Comments (0)