Yesterday was finally Sylvester’s turn to be dragged to the vet against his will. I had been dreading this trip because Sylvester, though pushing 3 years old, insists on clinging to perpetual kittenhood, preferably the scatter-brained, wired, semi-insane stage.
Gary stopped at home to see if I needed help herding Sylvester into the carrier. Once his humongous tail was crammed into the carrier, he immediately set to work popping his head through any opening like a Whack-a-Mole while I nearly fainted, trying to push his fool head back into the carrier, scared he was going to choke himself, and in this state of chaos, we set off for the vet.
Sylvester calmed down to angry, “I’m-going-to-get-you-in-your-sleep” glowers by the time we sat in the waiting room. When we were called into the exam room, I warned the vet and the technician that he is a vicious, crazy, blood-thirsty, human-eating killer…
…and Sylvester meekly slinked out of the carrier and into the awaiting arms of the technician, allowing himself to be dangled passively from her arm like a stuffed cat, something that would have gotten my arm shredded to beef jerky if I attempted it at home.
Hmmph. He was a softie the entire time we were with the vet, letting the vet poke, prod, even feel his teeth. I told the vet about a small red mark I had spotted on his chin, but every time I tried to inspect it, Sylvester reeled from me like I had administered a high-voltage shock or prodded him with a cattle iron, stuffing his furball body under the bed until he thought I was long gone or had merely forgotten whatever dastardly torture I had up my sleeve for him.
I warned the vet he wouldn’t let her check out his chin…
…and Sylvester gently lifted his chin and held his head up calmly so the vet could look at his chin.
Whatever magic the vet had worked wore off before I even released him from the carrier. He hopped out, gave me a dirty look, and took off to wrestle Rosie, chase the bed, roll himself up in rugs, and climb the blinds.
I gave him treats despite his trickery at the vet, deceiving everyone into petting his soft fur and cooing “What a good boy!” I know better.
My demon cat weighed in at 12 pounds, which makes Rosie the official heftiest cat in our household! Now, when Gary and the kids point to Sylvester, laugh, and proclaim him “fat, not fluffy”, I can remind them that Rosie outweighs him by nearly 2 pounds of girth.