Yes, I Have One (supremegoddess1) wrote in metaquotes,
Yes, I Have One
supremegoddess1
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felisdemens's cat *really* doesn't like the vet:

so, I took Yanaglatchey to the vet yesterday evening. He's got some sort of ghastly scabby patch over one eye, and he's chewed the fur off his right wrist.

It was a bit of a process - not only was I having a spectacularly lousy day, but the little bastard weighs 30 lbs and bites.

I loaded him into the carrier with surprising ease. I'd donned gardening gloves, sprayed the carrier with Kitty Ludes, and dumped catnip into the back of the carrier. He went in with barely a fuss...

...which is where I should have realized his plan.

I strained my shoulder getting him and the carrier out the door and into my car. One we were on the road, he uttered a few plaintive remarks and then decided to make his opinion truly known.

See, it seems he's developed a defensive tactic that I like to call Revenge Shitting.

He immediately crapped his carrier.

I rolled the windows down and remonstrated with him.

Y: MEOWWWWW!
Me: Of course it stinks, you shat the carrier! That was pretty goddamned stupid!
Y: MEEROWRRRRR!
ME: I know, I get the point, but you're still going to the vet!
Y: MEEEEROWROWRRR!
Me: Screw you, scabby.

Meanwhile an intrepid Gardens cop was following me as I careened toward certain destruction. I couldn't wait for him to pull me over. "License, regi- EWW, is that catshit? You're free to go."

I made it to the vet without incident, where they wrangled him about. Every single soul in that building had to come and look at him. "Jesus, he's HUGE," they'd exclaim, snapping photos. The vet techs were all astounded.

They cleaned the carrier and wiped his feet and sprayed kitty-safe deodorizer about. All was well.

Whereupon as soon as they cultured his scrofulous patch, he shat all over the exam table.

Cleanup ensued again.

No mites in the scabby bits - not mange. (Yay!) Let's haul out the rave light and fluoresce the cat. Nope, not fungus. (yay!) Let's take another swab. Okay, let him off the table.

He promptly leapt down, scuttled into a corner, and shat resentfully on the floor while growling at the vet. By this point the stench was fucking tangible.

More cleanup. I jammed his surly ass back into the carrier and hoisted him back into the car.

Where - you guessed it - he crapped his carrier again.

Revenge shitting, people. It's very effective in communicating your opinion when your vocal cords aren't developed to actually say "I HATE YOU". It certainly made the point to me, as I stood on the front lawn hosing catshit out of a plastic box and musing about the dimensional portal to a world of pure feces that Yanaglatchey seems to keep hidden in his nether regions.

Nonetheless, if the pills don't do the trick I'm taking his mangy, crusty carcass back to the goddamned vet, only this time in a doggie diaper. Take that, you fucker!


QWP, nothing says context like a steaming pile o' poo...
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