It’s that time of year, again, when the children get to go visit their favorite place in the whole world. They get adored and loved on and… stuck with needles, probed, and a host of other unpleasant things. Going to the doctor just sucks. This year, George actually did better than ever. As a spook, he has issues with people he doesn’t “know,” and even though he’s been to the vet more than a dozen times since he joined the family, it really doesn’t matter. He’s still spooky and shy, but this time, he did a little better. Crookshanks, however, my normally social butterfly, had what can only be described as a psychotic episode.
Since I got Crook in December, 2014, he’s been back to the vet’s office three times: first for a shot update, second when I switched foods and his tummy rebelled horrifically, and third when he stopped eating back this past December. His first visit was no big deal. He got into the carrier fairly easily. The second visit, he was mildly bothered. I say mildly only in comparison to the episode this Saturday. It took Auntie Lynn and me about ten minutes to get him in his carrier and that only after I spent ten minutes alone, and he spilled my blood. We finally made it to the vet, where I purchased a leash and harness. He was enthralled. The third visit was all leash-and-harness, and he did great despite feeling like poo.
We have also taken several trips to our greyhound adoption group to do some “cat-testing.” He went through those ordeals like a true champ! No issues. He let the greys sniff him (some tried to eat him), but he never got feisty. He was the perfect puss.
On Saturday, when we walked in the door, he was in my arms with George out in front on his leash. Suddenly, he was quite literally fighting me tooth and nail. I ended up dropping him on the floor, and he ran into the little children’s play area they have there in the office. We got George off into an exam room, and I went to pick up Crook. He hissed, spat, and clawed the crap out of my hand. He was livid. The problem, it would seem, was Joseph, the office cat. He had come out and was sitting on the front desk. Crook was not having any of that.
I eventually was able to scruff him and haul him off into the exam room. They worked on George first, to try and let Crook calm down. By the time we were ready for him he was still having a hissy fit. I have more than 10 “holes” in my hands, not scratches, but holes where he latched on with those needle sharp claws and just held on for dear life. They brought out the gloves and a towel to try to catch him. He was having none of that. He was screaming worse than any cat fight I’ve ever heard. The GSOD (greyhound scream of death) is an insignificant whisper compared to the yowling coming out of that cat. You’d have thought he was being mauled by a rabid dog.
It ended up taking ten to fifteen minutes for two techs, two pairs of gloves, and two towels to catch the little beastie and get him into the plastic box. The plastic box then had two receptacles that are used to pump in anesthetic gas. So, yes, we gassed my cat. He was still snarling and growling after. They were able to clean him up (he had made rather a mess of himself in his hissy fit), give him his shots, cut off his nails, and get him in a kennel. When they brought him out to me he was fairly alert, but loggy, and still a bit snarly. We managed to get him in the truck without any additional drama.
Once we got home, it took him about half an hour of hiding under the bed and out on the porch before he climbed up in my lap, curled up, and slept for two hours. Seriously, psychotic episode. He has been perfectly fine since. What the heck?