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I’m getting ready to get Holy Hell from the furry beasts in this house. Unbeknownst to them … the dreaded, unseen, mobile, V-E-T-E-R-I-N-A-R-I-A-N is arriving at Chez Cats at High Noon. I thought about trying to convince them now that this is a whole lot better than being bundled into plastic cages, thrown in the back of Uncle Len’s car, bounced down noisy city bocks and then…and then…parked in a waiting room that has — shall I say it out loud — DOGS! Nah — they wouldn’t believe me even if I reminded them of their two, count them 1-2, visits to the vet in their eight years of life. This will be easy-smeasy, a kind of jiffy-lube for cats without even leaving home. They should be grateful. Eh?

If I was mean spirited, I could tell Nick that this is All His Fault NahNahNaNahNa— just like I used to blame my little brother, Tom, for things. But, in this case, Nick is really guilty as charged. If he hadn’t been moping around here last Tuesday, complaining and bumping into my leg like I should know what was wrong and fix it, I wouldn’t have called Judith and gotten the name of The Mobile Vet. Nor would I have ticked the “Please Contact Me” box on his web page. A weak argument, the cats would say, not worthy of their consideration. I’d follow, in my defense, by telling them I wrote what I thought was a convincing e-mail to The Mobile Vet listing valid reasons why we really didn’t need his visit. I had emphasized the cat’s good, healthy living since their humble beginnings in that Chinatown alley. I outlined their daily exercise regime of running up and down the stairs and attacking each other after each lap, cleaning their teeth each morning with Greenies, eating only wholesome (A PetValu Guarantee) no-chemicals-please food, and not roaming the streets like riff-raff but only taking the air on the protected porch. Unfortunately, it didn’t convince the cats — nor the vet.

The Mobile Vet (maybe I’ll call him TMV) didn’t actually say Shame on You, Cat Owner. Shame on You! Eight Years!! Eight Years and no check ups??? He was more subtle than that. “Kitties” — he hasn’t met Rose yet who would be insulted to be called a kitty cat — “have to be checked out every year … there are health issues that can go unnoticed specially in a male cat (Nick again), they need urine and blood work.” Shameshameshame on you, Annie Eyerman.

Guilt welled up inside of me. I swear the cats knew it too. They parked their righteous selves on the back of the couch and stared at me while I dialed the number to make this appointment. They may regret their smugness once he gets here — he’s already late. Hope his charges don’t start when he gets in the car.
***
He Came. He Saw. I Was Conquered.
Rose made sure that she enacted her REVENGE immediately. As soon as The Mobile Vet arrived at the door, she morphed into a biting, clawing, hissing, spitting, sneaky, She Devil to the Nth Degree. All of the vemom — every teeny tiny ounce of it — was directed at me. I thought Nick would be the problem but he just hid under the covers until we went upstairs and was Mr. Placid Cat Himself through it all. “Such a nice cat,” the vet praised.
He didn’t say that about Ms. Rose — no way he’ll ever call her “kitty” again. She found hiding places even I couldn’t figure out. It’s amazing what a small space such a fat cat could fit into. She had us running up the stairs and down — following her low I-Dare-You-to-Come-Near-Me growl. It’s scary to think that she sleeps with me! I caught her once and she made me pay dearly — scratched fingers, a bite in the neck (does she have vampire blood somewhere in her little veins?), all delivered with a general F-You kind of attitude. But eventually she held up the white flag and let the vet listen to her little heart (mean as it was at the time) and look in her eyes and check her teeth and all that. She even let him clip her nails — front and back.
They both got high marks for health — I take all the credit. A little tartar on the back teeth but nothing serious.
So a couple of hundred dollars later, I’ll off to my vet — no I mean my doctor — to get antibiotics for the gashes that Rose inflicted on my body. Nick is back under the covers ignorning everything. I haven’t found Rose but she’s here somewhere — righteously licking her own wounds and hopefully not planning any more revenge — at least not until I finish this round of antibiotics, please.
Post Script: Snuggles, Irish Kate’s cat, who I wrote about earlier, lost her battle with the evil Big C. She’s off wherever good cats go when their time here is up. 
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