A Tail of Mostly Woe.

I'm afraid that I've not been feeling well lately. It started some time ago, as you'll recall, and I fear I've never fully recovered. I've been moody and lethargic to the point of nastiness, and my activity in the realm of the baser functions hasn't been too, shall I say, regular. Because of these abnormalities, which I've tried to conceal, my self-proclaimed owner decided that I should go back to the v*t. Oddly, I didn't go to the place, where the two-legged cat hobbles around, shouting slurs and fork-tongued wiener d*gs leer at one with the hairy eyeball. No, this place was quite different and rather beyond a quick description. Therefore, I shall provide you the details in due course.

The day was as mundane and boring as ever. My human toiled over her enormous giraffe, cursing the thing with distain (an increasingly typical scenario in our place) while I sprawled myself out upon the floor, curling my feet in hopes of attracting some attention. I didn't get any, but I was a little too sluggish to physically harass her, so instead I decided to go to sleep right then and there. I might add that her failing to feed me supper may have had something to do with my weakened state, but she insisted that I create a stink in the bin before she'd feed me. I admit, I tried a couple of times, but the tum just wasn't agreeable. That's when she got vicious. "Either go in the box or you'll go to the v*t!" she said to me, as though production of bodily waste was a hobby I'd simply gone off at the moment and could pick back up at any time desired. Still, I didn't wish to go to the v*t, so again I tried; and again I failed.

It was ghastly. In and out of the bin, trying to perform and being unable. I must admit, for a brief moment, I thought going to the v*t wouldn't be a bad idea, but I soon gained my senses. The v*t is typically ineffective; and the last time I went they gave me these nasty pills that made me more ill than before I'd gone, and if you'll recall, I had never fully recovered. Yes, to my mind the whole idea was right out! To my human's mind, however, it was right on, and before I realised what had happened, two of them were on me strapping me about with the evil harness, and attempting to press me into that malignant carrier.

I puffed myself up to three times the cat, all claws and teeth in a twisting mass of hair and hisses! Throaty growls projected from within, and I kicked at the sack with all four paws. Alas, there were two of them and only one of me. I was defeated, deflated, and, before long, zipped in and clamped shut. Next the pair carried me off to the great, white, gurgling whale they call "Truck", where they lashed me to the seat with a thin, though completely indestructible, strap. That's when the cruel reality struck me: I was going to the v*t.

The ride seemed to take forever, and we weren't going in the same direction as before. I know this, because my wristwatch has a built in compass that I have consulted on previous excursions. We were definitely not going east; we were going south, and the v*t is usually east. For a time this had me fooled. I deluded myself with the idea that there must have been a grand opening at some new pet store, to which they were taking me. Yes, I started believing that all this v*t nonsense was just nonsense, and that they were really covering up so I would be pleasantly surprised as I enjoyed the wonderful bliss of an isle completely devoted to gourmet cat mints.

As I mentioned, I was deluding myself. We did, in fact, arrive at a v*t's office, just not the v*t's office. Regardless, one v*t is very much like another as far as I'm concerned, and I still resented being there.

I must confess that the experience was not precisely the same. Indeed, it varied greatly from the suburban, main street gig that I'd gone to for the past several years. This place was in a rather ruralish setting, and I smelled the distinct aroma of unkilled beef lingering in the air. This farmish atmosphere made me nervous. I've heard that some ignorant humans will dump felines at farms when they don't know how to deal with them. I also know that I do go on a bit at times, and I can be rather the personified harassment. All this being said, you can imagine the left-pawed relief I found when we entered the establishment to find that it was, indeed, a v*t and not an unwanted feline depository.

It wasn't quite like any v*t's I'd been to before. It was rather drab and time worn, with benches that looked like they'd been pilfered from the booths of one of those family dining adverts one sees on television. Not a chair to be seen. It didn't much matter, though, because there was no one in there, and I was taken immediately into the torture chamber.

The v*t himself was a portly, jovial man with large, meaty hands and a hammy disposition. Everything about him suggested that he had a penchant for the beef; but so do I, so I didn't pass judgement. I must say he was rather intimidating, and for as much as I hate that infernal carrier, I was even less inclined to come out than I was inclined to enter. Of course, the tactics one uses when trying to stay out of the bag are quite different from those used when trying to stay in, so there I was, curled into the tightest ball I could manage, when those great, chubby digits reached in and snagged me out.

He was all business: pry open the jaws have a look inside, then turn over and start pressing on the belly. I'm not sure why v*ts do that. It's one of the reasons I so dislike going. They always want to fondle the area that ails me. This fellow was no different. And there's such a lack of privacy! Here he is, palpating my spleen, or whatever bit it was, talking about my poo and calling me fat! Fat! HA! I'm nearly skin and bones!

A short conversation ensued regarding the food I eat and some kind of foul-looking medicine he wished me to take, and almost as soon as we'd arrived, I was placed back in the sack (needless to say, I was much more cooperative this time round) and walked out to that monstrous, gurgling beast which I was surprisingly grateful to see.

Upon arriving home I was set loose and allowed to get stuck in a bit before they, again, ganged up on me; this time to force feed me that wicked brew prescribed by the v*t. To say it was revolting would be too kind. It was beyond revolting; it was the sort of stuff that gives you such violent gags that your eyes to pop out like the chin bag of a toad who over-extends himself and gets a blow out. Suffice to say, it was beyond wretched, it was retching!

I know I keep going on about all the bad bits; so in conclusion, I might tell you that whatever that ghastly stuff was, it worked, and I do feel quite a bit better. Not only that, but the v*t did manage to convince my self-proclaimed owner to choose a new food for me, and the food she chose is possibly the finest kibble I've ever eaten. I dare not say that I'm appreciative of the v*t, but I'm at least not as unappreciative of him as I was. If I should ever become ill again, I hope we will consult with him on the matter.

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