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Snip's trip to the emergency room a few weeks ago reminded us that it was Getting On Time for both critters' annual checkups, AKA "Hey, you told us we were going to Disneyworld!" We take them to a cat-only practice, which is a bit pricier than some GP's but I do believe that Weasel the Shrinking Violet would drop dead of fright if she encountered a dog (we originally started going there because Tigger was so old she needed the Advanced Geriatrics sort of advice/care), and anyway it's only once a year if the little monsters can keep out of trouble. Weasel hadn't previously objected to being toted around in the Chinese-carryout box from the shelter, but Snip is the brains of the outfit and could escape from one even as a kitten, so last weekend we had to go buy one real carrier. (Which occasioned some argument between the 10lb/under model and the 10-15lb model until I pointed out to Mum that a cat who eats like a killer whale could possibly come to exceed the safety margin on the smaller carrier and snap the knockdown-hinges off in transit.)
Perhaps Weasel didn't object to her previous jaunts in the takeaway box because she'd only actually been to the vet twice since we got her, and one of those occasions was for her booster shots while she was still traumatized from her original arrival in our household; this time, enough of her beautiful-but-vacuous brain cells managed to get coordinated that she fought like the dickens not to be put into the box, and nearly made it out twice through the gap under the handle-punchout (Snip's escape route of choice) before we stuffed a towel through the handle. Weasel being the dumb animal she is, this fooled her completely and she settled down into sullen resignation. Snip jumped up onto the staging area to investigate the plight of her roommate, little realizing that her own fate was about to unfold...
After a failed attempt and quick recapture, Snip got packaged into her own sturdy new carrier. Which was sitting on Mum's wall-unit bed, about a foot off the floor. And which, we immediately discovered, wasn't on a stable enough surface to handle the writhing agitation of Snip. The carrier took off like a Mexican jumping bean and rolled onto the floor. But all the latches held, so aside from Snip's dignity, no harm done...
Snip complained the whole way over to our vet -- perhaps remembering that the last time she went out of the house strangers made her vomit, and for that I wouldn't blame her. Weasel was quieter, probably because she couldn't see out. It was even a cool enough day not to stifle them. We got to the vet with a few minutes to spare, and to my surprise for once they were running on schedule for the day.
Weasel was whisked into the back for a weigh-in -- 7lb and some, about the same as last year's checkup and much improved from the snakelike 5lb when we got her -- and then back out front for... the ANAL PROBE. Temperature normal, cat's mind after anal probe not so much so. I handed Weasel back to Mum, where the cat immediately went limp and assumed an expression of, "ohgod, they took me in their spaceship and they PROBED me, I don't want to live any more, I DON'T WANT TO LIVE..."
Snip weighed 9lb and a bit and regarded the temperature-taking as old hat, since she'd just gotten a lubed-up sensor jammed up her rear three weeks previously (and in fact had come home from the experience to fill Weasel's head with horror stories about her close encounter with aliens). Snip's physical came first, since Weasel's mind had snapped. We showed off the trophy from the emergency room trip and its mate that had come out later; cleaned off and measured, the yarn came to a grand total of nine feet, and the vet was duly impressed, as was the tech who was bringing in the tray of vaccine just as we were discussing the incident.
The vet checked the front end of Snip and then rotated her to palpate her way down to the rear -- and it was as I was resettling my grip on Snip's head that I noticed a line of pink on her nose. Somewhere between insertion into and removal from the box, Snip had managed to shear a layer or two of skin off the whole left half of her nose-pad. She inflicted a similar and deeper injury upon one of her thumb-pads a few months ago, so based upon how that healed the vet thought this would probably be less than disfiguring, but I can't help but wonder if the texture will grow back or not, since the pad injury's come in a little different than the surrounding skin. Must remember to check the new carrier for sharp edges when we knock it down for storage.
Snip behaved throughout the checkup, although her tail had gone into "I'm calling my lawyer" mode early on and she was just as happy to be pronounced healthy and given the opportunity to retreat back into her box. I had to pry Weasel from Mum's shirt claw by claw to get her back up onto the examination table. (This is about when we noticed that Weasel was naked because she'd slipped her collar somewhere without us noticing. Way to make the vet think we're bad parents, here...) Weasel was still too traumatized to put up any fight as she was examined. She even let the vet look at her teeth, which was a mistake because now Weasel's going to need some major dentistry in the near future; all her rear molars are basically shot. Vet said this is extremely common in Siamese, which made me wonder afresh if Tigger had indeed had a bit of Siamese in her somewhere, because for a ginger tabby Tigger talked even more than Weasel does, and Tigger had a lifetime of dental maladies. Snip's teeth are fine, as it happens; whether this is simply youth or more of a liking for kibble than Weasel, we can only see.
Weasel is on antibiotics for the time being, because dentistry could be quite a few paychecks in the future and anyway the gum infections would have to be knocked out first. Tigger had so many dental problems in her life that she seemed to have come to enjoy the tase of amoxycillin; Weasel is a bit harder to dose, but so far we still have all of our limbs, which is an encouraging sign.
Went home by way of the landlord (slowly catching up or at least treading water). Learned that the pipes need to be worked on again. Beginning to empathize with Weasel's fugue state...
Went to see Fahrenheit 9/11 on Sunday. Basically it's the information the savvy internet user's had access to for the past 3 1/2 years but wrapped up in a neat package that's too big to bury on page Q-114. Packed house: some gasps, some laughs, and a rousing round of applause at the end, which I can't recall hearing after very many movies. Perhaps now, seeing all the other people turning out with them to this film, people will come to realize that they're not the crazy one, the Administration is, and they're far, far from being as alone in that perception as Faux News would try to have them think...
Perhaps Weasel didn't object to her previous jaunts in the takeaway box because she'd only actually been to the vet twice since we got her, and one of those occasions was for her booster shots while she was still traumatized from her original arrival in our household; this time, enough of her beautiful-but-vacuous brain cells managed to get coordinated that she fought like the dickens not to be put into the box, and nearly made it out twice through the gap under the handle-punchout (Snip's escape route of choice) before we stuffed a towel through the handle. Weasel being the dumb animal she is, this fooled her completely and she settled down into sullen resignation. Snip jumped up onto the staging area to investigate the plight of her roommate, little realizing that her own fate was about to unfold...
After a failed attempt and quick recapture, Snip got packaged into her own sturdy new carrier. Which was sitting on Mum's wall-unit bed, about a foot off the floor. And which, we immediately discovered, wasn't on a stable enough surface to handle the writhing agitation of Snip. The carrier took off like a Mexican jumping bean and rolled onto the floor. But all the latches held, so aside from Snip's dignity, no harm done...
Snip complained the whole way over to our vet -- perhaps remembering that the last time she went out of the house strangers made her vomit, and for that I wouldn't blame her. Weasel was quieter, probably because she couldn't see out. It was even a cool enough day not to stifle them. We got to the vet with a few minutes to spare, and to my surprise for once they were running on schedule for the day.
Weasel was whisked into the back for a weigh-in -- 7lb and some, about the same as last year's checkup and much improved from the snakelike 5lb when we got her -- and then back out front for... the ANAL PROBE. Temperature normal, cat's mind after anal probe not so much so. I handed Weasel back to Mum, where the cat immediately went limp and assumed an expression of, "ohgod, they took me in their spaceship and they PROBED me, I don't want to live any more, I DON'T WANT TO LIVE..."
Snip weighed 9lb and a bit and regarded the temperature-taking as old hat, since she'd just gotten a lubed-up sensor jammed up her rear three weeks previously (and in fact had come home from the experience to fill Weasel's head with horror stories about her close encounter with aliens). Snip's physical came first, since Weasel's mind had snapped. We showed off the trophy from the emergency room trip and its mate that had come out later; cleaned off and measured, the yarn came to a grand total of nine feet, and the vet was duly impressed, as was the tech who was bringing in the tray of vaccine just as we were discussing the incident.
The vet checked the front end of Snip and then rotated her to palpate her way down to the rear -- and it was as I was resettling my grip on Snip's head that I noticed a line of pink on her nose. Somewhere between insertion into and removal from the box, Snip had managed to shear a layer or two of skin off the whole left half of her nose-pad. She inflicted a similar and deeper injury upon one of her thumb-pads a few months ago, so based upon how that healed the vet thought this would probably be less than disfiguring, but I can't help but wonder if the texture will grow back or not, since the pad injury's come in a little different than the surrounding skin. Must remember to check the new carrier for sharp edges when we knock it down for storage.
Snip behaved throughout the checkup, although her tail had gone into "I'm calling my lawyer" mode early on and she was just as happy to be pronounced healthy and given the opportunity to retreat back into her box. I had to pry Weasel from Mum's shirt claw by claw to get her back up onto the examination table. (This is about when we noticed that Weasel was naked because she'd slipped her collar somewhere without us noticing. Way to make the vet think we're bad parents, here...) Weasel was still too traumatized to put up any fight as she was examined. She even let the vet look at her teeth, which was a mistake because now Weasel's going to need some major dentistry in the near future; all her rear molars are basically shot. Vet said this is extremely common in Siamese, which made me wonder afresh if Tigger had indeed had a bit of Siamese in her somewhere, because for a ginger tabby Tigger talked even more than Weasel does, and Tigger had a lifetime of dental maladies. Snip's teeth are fine, as it happens; whether this is simply youth or more of a liking for kibble than Weasel, we can only see.
Weasel is on antibiotics for the time being, because dentistry could be quite a few paychecks in the future and anyway the gum infections would have to be knocked out first. Tigger had so many dental problems in her life that she seemed to have come to enjoy the tase of amoxycillin; Weasel is a bit harder to dose, but so far we still have all of our limbs, which is an encouraging sign.
Went home by way of the landlord (slowly catching up or at least treading water). Learned that the pipes need to be worked on again. Beginning to empathize with Weasel's fugue state...
Went to see Fahrenheit 9/11 on Sunday. Basically it's the information the savvy internet user's had access to for the past 3 1/2 years but wrapped up in a neat package that's too big to bury on page Q-114. Packed house: some gasps, some laughs, and a rousing round of applause at the end, which I can't recall hearing after very many movies. Perhaps now, seeing all the other people turning out with them to this film, people will come to realize that they're not the crazy one, the Administration is, and they're far, far from being as alone in that perception as Faux News would try to have them think...