Trip to the Vet

There's always a little song and dance that has to be done when I need to take one of the cats to the vet. And today was Lex's turn (a.k.a. "Fitty"). Fitty's been scratching like it's going out of style and he wants to get one last lick in. He's losing hair and losing weight and ugh, can't these animals just stay healthy?

So I'm driving home from work, plotting the best way to trap the cat. I figure the best thing to do is act natural. Fitty can smell a plan hatching a mile away and then he hides in some strange crevice in the house that I can't possibly get to. Then he hunkers down for the long haul forcing me to use the broom handle to scooch him out, which traumatizes him so he starts to drip saliva out of his mouth, and then there's a wild chase around the house which ends with me cursing and experiencing an unsafe elevation in heart rate. (Repeat this once a month for application of the flea preventative.)

I walk in the house as breezy and normal as can be. I don't have a cat carrier so I snagged a box and a laundry basket. I walked right up to him, scooped him up, placed him lovingly in the box and wedged the laundry basket down on top of it tightly. He did the crazy "distress" meow. I assured him he'd be fine. And then I walked away because we had an hour before needing to leave for the vet. (I didn't think I could act natural for very long I guess.) And then he popped the top off my cat-carrying-contraption and escaped! I knew things would now be considerably more difficult.

I went back to plan "a" - act natural. I acted like his escape did not phase me a bit. I then implemented plan "b" - do things that normally lures him upstairs. I opened up sandwich meat. No Fitty. I poured cereal in a bowl. No Fitty. I poured milk in the bowl. Still no Fitty. I went to the basement to scope out the situation. He was in a high area that would require broom handles. I didn't want to do that just yet. So I took the bowl of cereal down stairs with me. I don't like cereal and all we had was a box of year-old cornflakes. But, in a bid to act natural, I sat down and started eating the stale cereal. With trepidation he approached the bowl. He dipped his paw in a few times and started purring. Then I felt horrible for what I was going to do next. So I snatched him up and off we went...with the crazy "distress" meows providing the soundtrack to our car trip.

So now, Fitty's on the roids. (He got a steroid shot.) Let's hope he doesn't get roid rage - because I know where he'll be directing that hostility.