Tubby

Every fall for the last four years, right before he goes back to school, D takes Kitty to the doctor for his shots and whatnot. I have no knowledge of what goes on at the doctors. It's not my business. He's not my cat.

So this year, since Dan was only home for a week here and there, Kitty didn't get escorted to his doctor appointment by D and the G/f, styling in his Kitty-Carryall. It was up to me to take him. Prompted by three separate postcards from the vet's office. First: It's that time again! Second: Your pet's health is important to us! Third: You may not be eligible for the Bad Mother Of The Year Award anymore but Bad Pet Owner Of The Year is still within your reach!

Dang.

So this morning at 9:15 I jammed Jadn into his Kitty-Carryall (surprisingly, he hates his Kitty-Carryall....who knew?) and schlepped him to the vets office. At first it was all, "Hi there!" with smiles and small talk, and, "Bring Jadn into Exam Room #2 and someone will be right with you." I'm all like, "This ain't so tuff."

The nice smiley kitty nurse came and chatted with me for a moment before taking Jadn off to parts unknown, behind the closed door, where they apparently torture the household pets of unsuspecting b@st@rds like myself.

Kitty screeched. And cried. And howled. And then screeched louder and longer then I ever thought possible. It was waaaay beyond horrifying.

When the nice smiley kitty nurse came back with J (in one piece, I was pleasantly surprised to discover, even though by then I was a total emotional wreck,of course) she said he was an angel through exam and the shots, but he fought the good fight over taking the worming medicine. By mouth. I would have guessed "suppository" by the caterwauling.

And if I hadn't been slapped around enough (this is all about me, you know) she tells me that Kitty's weight is becoming "a concern", and proceeds to foist a wad of pamphlets at me about serious conditions that arise from "feline obesity", like diabetes, and how "we" need to look at his food intake and put him on a special diet and I guess I really am a shoe-in for that Bad Pet Owner Of The Year award.

D@mmit.

Before I can get big old fat Tub Of Lard out of there, I have to stop at the front desk and pay for our mutual torture and humuliation. To the tune of $136, thank you very little.

I'm like, "He's really not fat." Trying to rationalize. Trying save face.

The receptionist looks at his chart, "Well he is almost 15 pounds," she apologizes.

"Would you mind not announcing his weight to the waiting room?" I snot. "He's pretty sensitive about it."

Is it any wonder I drink?