Getting him in the cage. Listening to him wail for the twenty minute car ride. Watching as he hyperventilates and claws at the door with a 'why the hell are you doing this to me?' face.
It kills me because he doesn't understand. I can't explain. It isn't for lack of trying. I talk to him. I tell him it's almost over. We are almost there. I'll give you some treats when we get home.
The wife told me if I sing to him in a high pitched voice he calms down. Bull. Shit.
The vet visit is the same routine.
Oh, what a cutie.
Stephen? What an interesting name.
I love the pink carrier.
To which I reply:
Yes he is.
Wife named him.
She bought it.
A quick exam, a thermometer up the crack, couple of shots and the cat and I (pink case and all) are back in the car and headed home. Just another twenty minute crying session and the morning goes off without much of a hitch.
I smell a hitch. Actually I smell something. Probably not a hitch.
I looked down to make sure I didn't step in anything on the walk to the car. Clean.
He is panting. He is hyperventilating. He is rolling around in his own shit.
This means that the trauma of the vet is the least terrible experience of the morning. Probably much worse than the car ride, thermometer up the ass, two shots, or embarrassment of a pink carrier case. Now it's bath time.
This is the kind of experience that changes a normally mild mannered animal into an incredibly irritable beast.
I am talking about me.
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