Today I had the unfortunate task of taking my two cats to the vet. I have never owned a pet before meeting my husband (unless you count the time I owned two beta fish and a few little African frogs that met their sad demise) so I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It finally occurred to me when I tried forcing, coaxing, trickery and bribery to get our 13 year old Kitty into her pet carrier. After my pathetic attempts to put her treats in the carrier I had to shove her in there against her own free will. I should explain that Kitty does not like to be picked up and does not like to be confined in tiny blue spaces. She expressed this to me with her claws attached to my neck and a lovely gash on my arm. I felt like Peter Pan battling against Captain Hook. ("Say your a codfish!")
I nervously picked up Frankie in my arms (since I didn't want to spent $45 at Petco on a carrier), slung Kitty in her carrier over my shoulder along with my purse and plopped them in the car. Of course, twenty minutes later, Kitty got out of her flimsy carrier by pushing her head through the zippers and I was afraid I looked like a crazy cat lady. I had to pull over three times and hold Frankie in my right hand as tightly as I could while driving with my left hand praying that the three of us make it there in one piece.
Thankfully we arrived at the vet safely with no bodily harm. The only real pain I felt that day was hearing my little Frankie cry when the vet gave her a shot. I had to turn away and cover my eyes and even then I almost cried. I felt ridiculous crying in front of the doctor and his assistant but I couldn't help it. I guess I really care about my little cats, battle wounds and all.
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