The cats are on Hot Alert. They know that something is in the air and they ain’t liking it. No, it’s not that I haven’t cleaned their litter box in the last five minutes. They are serious poopers and pee-ers so it takes multiple, almost hourly, scoopings to keep the litter up to their high standards. No, this alert is about something far more serious in the lives of these furry beasts.
Those hateful-dreaded-may-they-be-destroyed Carriers have appeared on the dining room table. The cats, who never forget anything, know what that means. The last time those carriers appeared these beasts were hauled away from their home of 23 years losing all their hiding places, favourite hangouts and secure food and moved up the hill away from everything that they had ever known. They ranted and railed against the injustice of it all. “Is there no democracy?” they asked me. Shouldn’t they have been consulted before they were moved from their only home. I reminded them that they had already moved from that alley in Chinatown to multiple foster homes before they got to Major Street so chill the melodrama. Rose took her complaints behind the couch for a day and Nick pee-ed in my bed. Then calmness returned.
But, now, once again, the carriers are back. Was it a bad idea to put them out early? I don’t know. Perhaps it would have spared me the dirty looks and constant complaints from Ms. Rose on the back of the sofa. This girl is not subtle in the least bit about anything or anyone that she feels is doing her an injustice. She started as soon as the last plastic screw went into her maroon carrier. “I won’t get in there,” she implied. “Good luck, Ann, trying to squeeze my ample hips into that little plastic box.” I didn’t tell her that dear Steven, who she loves, is coming to help. He can usually sweet-talk her into anything — even that maroon carrier.
What I’m not telling her because she might really freak, that the reason the boxes are out there is because she has a very wonky nail that just may be growing into her foot causing her pain and making her even crabbier than usual. It’s happened before and those memories, I believe, are still tucked into her sweet little head. She knows that a cold stainless steel table and a stranger poking his fingers into her mouth and nails and tummy and private parts is coming again.
Nick, on the other hand, leaves all of the verbal complaining to his sister and just retreats to his hideaway in the closet. He pretends that no-one can see him there and, therefore, he is safe from any kind of change that would disrupt his life. It’s been longer since he’s been to a vet so maybe he doesn’t remember the discomfort of that cold table and those probing fingers.
I could whine to them that I’m not so happy about this whole situation either since I’m the one who has to pay for it. I don’t say that out loud because I’d just get a refrain of “Blah, blah, blah, blah,” from the back of the couch.
But, be that as it may, we have to go to the vet tomorrow and that’s that and hope, hope, hope that he doesn’t find anything wrong except the need for a better manicure and pedicure.