Took my two male cats to the vet this morning to get fixed.
Snip.
Sorry about that, boys...believe me when I say I feel for ya.
They were not happy to be there. Had to dig the younger one out of a cabinet and his daddy out from the smallest, darkest corner he could find. Behind the printer under a counter, thank you very much. And then got to do it again after I calmed him down but the vet came back in. Whoosh...off like a shot to that small, dark place again. I got the scratches to prove it.
All went well in the end. Got 'em home and fed. They're going back and forth between pain-killer lounging and being way too needy. Way more than they were before.
I think it's like their kitty way of saying, "You bastard! You took me somewhere unknown and left me with people unknown and they CUT MY FUCKING BALLS OFF! Excuse me for thinking that you better pet me and you better do it RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
Since I can't argue with that logic I've been petting them on demand.
It's the least I can do. And in the immortal words of Hawkeye Pierce on the TV show MASH, "Never let it be said that I didn't do the least I could do."
spongebobcrackwhore
