As soon as the vet walked into the examination room, Gary practically shone a light into her eyes and interrogated, “Tell me…would you say that this cat is fat?”
She chuckled, apparently not the first time she was called in to referee a debate over the girth of a cat in question, and ran her hands over Rosie’s sides. She declared him within a normal weight range…but at the high end of a normal weight range.
A-ha! “See?” I said victoriously. My affectionate nickname of “Fat Boy” for Rosie was now justified, no?
Rosie is a wee wisp of a cat at 13.7 pounds, and picking him up usually requires a spotter, a back belt, and a safety net. But the vet declared him a healthy hunk of feline love, and she even drew a smiley face on his report. At some point she made reference to wild cats in zoos, a comment Gary chose to decipher as “She said my cat is like a wild cat! A wild little panther!” Followed by drooling all over the cat as he pets him, nuzzles him, and praises him for being so good at the vet, “unlike SC’s cats.”
Hey! So Tweetie is known to bare a fang and let rip with a few menacing growls as soon as the vet touches him. Given that this person is wielding a thermometer to be inserted in his hiney, can you blame him for expressing some distaste in the scenario?
As we left, the vet was still laughing and said it was good to see us again. She may be second-guessing that sentiment when we arrive with this for the 3rd and final trip to the vet:
I definitely saved the best for last. Sylvester is a wild ball of thick fur, fat tail, crazy energy, and rapidly misfiring synapses. Gary cautioned the vet to have welding tools and body armor on stand-by, which the vet mistook for a joke and laughed. I wanted to urge her not to chortle at the possibility of her impending demise at the paws of my Satan-spawn kitty, but I will wait until I unleash the hellcat from his carrier and let her see for herself.
Awww, Sylvester has actually calmed down somewhat in his old age of almost 3 years old. He’s been known to curl up beside me for some good, old-fashioned belly rubbing (his, not mine) and even sleep every now and then. The vet may only need chainmail gloves and a hockey mask.