Plotting to Take My Cat to the Vet

The odds of my enticing this sea gull into a cage are just about as good as the odds of me convincing my cat that she needs to put herself into her cat carrier for a visit to the vets later this morning.

Like a snowball’s chance in hell.

My cat – not the sea gull – dropped into my lap almost 16 years ago.  Well,  to be accurate,  she “dropped” into the back seat of the car that belonged to one of my dearest friends who, at that time, was working for a pet store on Monroe Avenue.

A pet store that was driven out of business because a larger, big-box-pet-store set up shop down the street.

It was one of those lovely spring days when you park your car and leave the car windows open just enough.  And, as my friend discovered,  “just enough” was wide enough for Someone To Shove a Small, Long-Haired Kitty Into  The Back Window Before Leaving The Scene of the Crime.

My friend, who was then and is now,  the Quintessential Cat Person,  gathered up this orphan kitty,  brought her home,  and then called me up.

“Kathy!  Come over and see what I’ve got!”  was how she greeted me on the phone.

It was Love At First Sight.  (You knew this part already, right?)

Like my friend,  I too, was then and am now,  a cat person.  Because my mom was a cat person.  We always had cats.

Without exception,  cats come into your house with Their Act Together much more so than dogs.  Which continues to amaze me and which I find blissfully endearing.

In all of my years of living with cats,  I had never had a long-haired one.  And, that’s what this orphan-kitty was.  As my Cat Friend explained,  this one was a long-haired, muted-tortishell kitty.

And she was stunning!  Her eyes were still kitten-blue.  Her fur was a mottled swirl of reds, browns, smudges of black; a white chest and belly, white paws.  She had the look of a French coquette about her.

And that insouciant air clearly influenced what I would call her.  She became Mewsette – pronounced “Mee-you sette.”  Let it roll off your tongue as if French is your native language.

For all of that long hair,  she would be a physically small cat.  She’s never weighted more than 11 pounds.  These days, she tips the scale at 7.

She has Always Had Definite Opinions About Things.

What she eats.  Somewhere along the way, she developed skin allergies and it took us a long time to find Something that she could eat.

Who would get to pick her up.  She doesn’t like being held.  She likes to come to you late at night, finding Just The Right Spot to settle into for the remainder of the night.

She likes to spend time with Josephine,  my whippet.  The two of them will bed down together in the dog crate in the kitchen.

She’s not Been Herself for a while now.  She’s been hiding down in the basement; refusing to use the litter box – having decided that peeing in the dog crate or downstairs on the basement floor are good substitutes.  And, if you know cats,  that’s  a sure sign that Something Is Up.

She threw up one night last week and then sat in it.  My son cleaned it and her up.

It’s been Time To Take Her To The Vets for a while now.  Which she abhors and will want Nothing to Do With.

It will take my son’s deft maneuvering to get her into the cat carrier later this morning.  Right now,  she is balanced on the kitchen counter top; not completely asleep, but doing a darn good impression of that.

As soon as I start to think that it’s time to get ready,  she will know.  And, she will disappear.

And, we might not be able to find her.   We will have to be sneakier and smarter than she is.

And fast.  Very fast.

I’m sure there is a Life Lesson here.  Not for Mewsette.  She knows everything that she needs to know.  That’s the great thing about her.

Maybe the Life Lesson is that I should have married a vet.  That way, I could avoid all of this drama.  And, while we’re at it,  make that a cute vet …  who is smarter than my cat.   [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]

 

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