Veterinarians Are Evil!

I must admit there are days when I'm not myself. At nine years of age, that's to be expected. But when I feel absolutely wretched I don't care to do much of anything. Playing becomes cumbersome, hem-mangling my self-proclaimed owner is a chore, and even eating requires more effort than I care to exert. Unfortunately, rather than let me alone, this blasted human thinks the best thing to do is stuff me in a carrier, strap me to the truck seat, drive a million miles, and take me to a place no kitty should have to go: the V*t's.

I'm not one to complain when someone shows me affection, but as much as she claims it's because she loves me, I know better. It's only when I'm at my weakest that she decides to stuff me into that bag! On a better day I'd have taken her arm off, but for all of her negatives, I can never label her "stupid". In fact, I think she knows too much.

For those of you who've never been to the v*t's office, let me clue you in on a few things. Firstly, you should be grateful for all eternity that you haven't been, and the only thing close to as bad is the drive there. You only think you hate your carrier, but, I'll have you know, once you get onto that hideous table you can't wait to get back in it! There are other animals there, and they taunt you and tease you and say wickedly mean things. The worst are the cats who actually live there. They stare you down and make you feel as unwelcome as they can, calling you furball, fatty, and butter-buns. (So I gained a pound, so what? I've not been feeling well.)

Then there are the other so-called patients, some of which are d*gs. This time there was a particularly nasty wiener d*g who sneered evilly from the arms of his owner just outside the torture chamber known as "Exam Room 1". I'd have hissed at him had I not been trying to operate my collar-cam. Still, he was a total jerk. My self-proclaimed owner thinks he's cute, but if she'd have heard what he said about her, I'm convinced that she'd think he was a jerk, too.

The table upon which they examine you are cold, steely hard things that aren't at all pleasant and cushy. When do humans ever lay on cold steel tables with people looking in their mouths, poking thermometers where they don't belong, and jabbing them in their bladders with needles? When they're laying in the MORGUE, that's when! Let me tell you, if you've never had a cystocentesis, you should be doubly happy. Trust me, that is no pretty procedure! Just looking at that needle makes you have to pee! I tried to tell them I would pee willingly, but I swear humans don't understand Felus! They were determined to poke me anyway, so I peed just so they would have to clean it up. That's what they get for messing with me. (I must admit, I wasn't keen on the bath afterward, but it was worth it just to tick the doctor off.)

I suppose once it's all over with I'll feel better. At least that's what they say. But if you never have to go and get poked and prodded, if you never have to get stuffed, strapped and driven for torture, if you never have to hear a smack talking wiener d*g, you should be a thankful feline; because I did it all yesterday, and all I can think of is losing myself in a cat mint haze for two or three days to ease my stress. If you see me soon, all strung-out or in rehab, just remember, the marvels of modern medicine drove me to it!

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)