The following is a true story.
Imagine a cocktail of future mother-in-law, an engagement party for 50 and a pair of puking cats.
What would you call such a concoction?
How about an “I Don’t Care What’s In It as Long as it Lands Me on My Ass?”
Two years ago, while Himself’s mom was visiting and we were hosting our engagement party, our cats came down with the pukeys.
This was really unusual. Our cats typically don’t have that problem.
We are lucky that way. But what we gain in happy gastric systems we lose in clawmarks in the paint on the cars.
So it all comes out even.
Our larger cat, Nimbus, had the problem much worse than our smaller cat.
And since this was so unusual -they had been upchucking all day – we called the vet who, of course, wanted to see the cats.
Both of them.
At the same time.
And I had no sedatives.
(For me, not the cats.)
Fortunately, future-Mom-in-law is a tough woman, and she agreed to help me get the cats to the vet.
We loaded them in their carriers and then into the car.
Weird fact: Our cats are more than happier to get into the carriers. But then they HATE being driven around in them. You’d think they’d learn. There is no getting into the carriers without then being transported to the car. It’s not like the carriers have catnip and toy mice in them and are left lying about for lounging and entertaining the neighbor cats. They have one purpose: to transport a cat to a vet. Yet the cats happily hop into them.
And then MAN do they complain once we’re on the road. YYYYYOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!
I ignore them. I say mocking things like, “Not wishing you jumped in with all four paws now, are you, ya pair of doofuses!” (Is it a pair of doofuses? Or is it a pair of doofi?)
So we made our way to the vet, with the cats yowling, and me shouting mocking phrases to drown out the sound of the yowling.
Literally, as we pulled into the vets parking lot, I remembered that I had fed the cats cheap food the day before. We’d run out of the quality stuff, I had a houseguest and a huge party to deal with, I hadn’t had time to stop at the swanky pet store and stock up, so they got fed Friskies that we’d received in the mail as a promotion. (Clinique samples do not ever make their way to me in the mail. Friskies samples? Sure why not. Here’s enough for the kids.)
So I figured out the likely cause of the problem, but by then we were in the parking lot. So we took the cats in.
The vet agreed with my assessment, and offered to give Nimbus, since he was suffering more (probably because he had eaten both his food AND Topaz’, the little glutton), an injection of Pepcid.
Since I was hosting a large party and didn’t want to have to deal with a bunch more rug stains, I said “sure.”
To this day, I’m sure she regrets the suggestion.
Three of us had a grip on the cat. Me, the vet, and the tech. The vet prepped the syringe, took aim and…
I’m not sure exactly what happened next.
There was a yowl and a blurry streak of fur.
Then… the cat was on the floor, the bent hypodermic was on the floor, and the vet was holding her bleeding hand from where the hypodermic had gone through it.
In the shock of the moment, I couldn’t remember what had been in the hypodermic and I was worried that the vet had just been accidentally sedated (remember Phoebe on “Friends” when the nasty animal control person was trying to shoot the monkey?) and was going to pass out. But, just Pepcid.
The vet looked at her hand, at the cat, then back at her hand and remarked calmly, “That’s never happened to me before.”
I stood mute. What do you say when your cat has just stabbed a vet with her own hypodermic needle?
You say you’re very, very sorry.
Then you sign a release whereby you agree that your cat can be restrained in a Hannibal Lecter Kitty Containment Unit the next time injections need to be given.
And then you go home and shampoo your carpets.