Subject: Taking Cat to the vet
(You've been warned)
Has anyone had to take a cat to the Vet? On public transport?
I did, and it was probably the most harrowing
experience of my life except for when I had a
spectacular bowel disorder. My cat had a Sheep Tick
lodged on his head, that could not be removed, so I
decided to take him to the vet. When I had bought
the cat, I'd also bought a cat basket made from
stout wicker for this very purpose.
I went to the closet and took out the basket, but
Cat saw it and gave me a cocky, head on one side,
look that said, quite simply, "If you think I am
going to humiliate myself by putting my fine, furry
body in that, you can shove it up your @rse, mate"
So I put the basket on the table, and picked up the
cat, cooing soft, gentle phrases that would have
calmed down one of those dogs that are banned and
owned by people with their names tatooed on their
foreheads in mirror writing. Cat started to purr,
albeit suspiciously. However, as soon as I got him
near the door of the basket, his limbs shot so wide
that he was clawing at both sides of the room
simultaneously.
There followed two minutes of what seemed like
fighting with an angry furry octopus with more
claws than Geronimo's necklace and the temper of
Don King with his german helmet caught in his fly.
"Come on, puss, go in"
"Meow"
"Please...ouch"
"Hiss....snarl"
"Get in you fat fu@king furry fu@ker"
"Meeoooow...growl..." etc..etc..
Eventually I succeeded, because I am over 6 feet
and 200 pounds. But I had been scratched so much
that I looked like I'd had Freddy Krueger round for
tea and angered him with a comment about his
mother's facial hair. So, I took him to the bus
stop and waited in the queue. Cat sat with his paws
folded with an expression of loathing disgust,
planning his ultimate revenge.... We got on the bus
and sat down. It was the usual group of afternoon,
off-peak passengers; Old ladies because they could
travel for free and spotty adolescents going to
burgle houses. For the first few minutes
Cat kept quiet, shuffling about a little, and
licking his bottom. Then it started.
"meow..."
"Meowwwww..."
"M E E O O W....WOOOOOOO....WOWOWOWO.....
MEEEEEEEOOOWWWW......grrrrrrrroowwwwlllll"
The old lady next to me was rather startled. I
think she thought it was an Air-Raid siren, and she
started mumbling "Old Fritz is at it again and my
Arthur was never the same after they shot one of
his b@lls off" But it soon became apparent to
everyone on the bus that it was Cat who was making
the racket. Spotty kid at the back took his Walkman
headphones off.
Then came the bombshell. It started as the faintest
whiff - the merest zephyr of cat shite wafting up
my nose. It's worth pondering for a moment what
goes on in a cats devilish insides. Consider what
goes in at the front end.
Certain brands of cat food in the UK have recently
been classified as "fit for human consumption". But
if I came home after a hard day at the office and
found a tin of that laid out for my dinner there
would be a great deal of shouting and a trip to the
lawyer's. Cat food is vile. There is a common bond
that is shared across humanity - everyone in the
whole world, when opening a tin of cat food before
breakfast shouts "Oh Jesus Fu@king Christ" when
they get a whiff of it. Even Arabs. So, considering
the material a cat has to work with, coupled with a
set of bile organs developed by Lucifer himself,
you can understand why I was sitting on a bus
surrounded by people looking like they were
entrants in a Face Pulling & Pointing competition.
And then came the urine.
Yokshire, in North England (where I live) has
recently suffered a drought. In an attempt to
resolve the situation, Yorkshire Water Limited had
to draft in hundreds of water tankers to top up the
depleted resevoirs. They needn't have bothered. All
they had to do was couple a pipeline to my cat's
wang, erect a sizable distilling facility and
provide gas masks to the local residents. I have
never seen as much urine come from a living being.
I've giggled at horses relieving themselves in
fields, and I've seen an elephant taking an
impressive leak in a TV programme. But they are
insignificant compared to the amount of fluid that
a cat can hold when it's angry. Steven Hawking
alone can contemplate the multi-dimensionality that
allows my 16 pound cat to store gallons of water in
its zeppelin of a bladder.
Of course, wicker baskets do not hermetically seal.
So the fluid ran straight on to my trousers. My
khaki, summer trousers. The crotch of my trousers.
It was way before my stop, but I just had to get
off the bus because people were starting to
threaten me between retches. I walked down the
aisle, dripping with wee, holding a caterwauling
ball of furry anger in a basket.
I had to walk about a mile to the Vet's, with
people looking straight at the dark, damp patch
that was my crotch. It was very difficult to retain
my dignity. When I got to the Vet's, the man took
one look at the cat, whipped out some tweezers and
had the Tick removed in an instant. Presenting me
with a bill that was large enough to buy food for a
platoon of hungry soldiers with tapeworms, he said
"You could have removed that at home - you needn't
have made the effort to come all the way here".
The next thing he said was "Ouch - there's no need
for th...", followed by "Oh Je$u$, my plums", and
rounding off with "That bill has got to be paid -
it's no good wiping your crotch with it".
Pinched From: Matthew Gaunt
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