Thug Life

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I believe I have mentioned the giant red “Caution” marker on my cat Saki’s file at his vet. I thought of it, vividly, sitting in the vet’s waiting room with Saki, wondering who was least happy to be there: me, with my checking account shrinking by the minute, or the technicians, tip-toeing around us, obviously prepared to flee shrieking at the first tiger striped sight of the killer cat, or Saki, ignoring everyone and sulking.

He has a lump that recently appeared on his nose and I just wanted to ask the vet “What’s with that?” and have him assure me it’s nothing.  Of course, the vet refused to go along with that script.  Instead, “maybe” it’s nothing, first we have to have blood tests (of course,) come back to poke a needle into it, and, by the way, clean his teeth.  Why does everything involve teeth cleaning?  No wonder Saki hates that place.

The good doctor hustled Saki in his carrier off to the back and left me to brood over multiple visits and tests while considering how unhappy all this leaves Saki.  Meanwhile, I assume they were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors back there to see who would get stuck extracting the little thug from his bag.  I should mention I asked, very politely, for them to clip his claws and Dr. Pussypants absolutely refused, citing Saki’s “history” with them.

I sort of expected Saki to reappear in a little orange jumpsuit with tiny manacles shackled around his wrists and one of those Hannibal Lecter face masks, but no, even if the woman bringing him out did hand him over with more speed than concern.  That’s my boy, an eight pound terrorist.

So now I’m considering simply ignoring the whole sorry mess.  Saki doesn’t understand the concept of “for your own good” and just thinks I occasionally decide to torture him.  I feel guilty for inflicting this on him.  God knows the only one benefiting from all this is whatever bar the staff repairs to afterwards to calm their shattered nerves.  What a bunch of dicknuts.

In this as in so many things, I have conflicting emotions.  I’m mortified that my cat strikes terror in the hearts of professionals accustomed to giving pitbulls enemas, but I’m also sort of thrilled that my cat is such a badass.

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Pussy, but not the kind that scares the vet’s office.  Or maybe it is, I just don’t know.

10 responses »

  1. I’m trying to figure out how it’s possible that they can clean a cat’s teeth, but find it too terrifying to slip its nails. Our boys require full sedation for teeth, but they’re quite docile – even the usually distinctly snappy Boudi – when it comes to paw-care.

    I’m also trying to imagine a scenario involving that very well set-up young gentleman that doesn’t end in tears and recrimination, without success; perhaps that’s why I’m such a boring old married person.

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    • My tears, his recrimination.

      Part of the reason I’m considering not doing this is that they sedate them for the teeth cleaning and I’m not happy wit the inherent dangers with that.

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  2. poor peenee. Yes it is a rather upsetting thing to subject our pets too. I also have the feeling you may find a spot of piss on your rug and a pair or two of shredded pj bottoms. Now excuse me whist I feel myself up over that lovely picture……..

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  3. Poor Saki, I hope it’s nothing serious.

    Why can’t I be presented with a big whopper like that, I’m sick of button mushrooms?

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  4. Saki doesn’t scare me! But then I know to stay pretty much clear of him. Any word on the blood tests? I hope this turns out to be nothing. And my feeling is that if cats in the wild don’t have to visit the dentist, why should those who live with us?

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