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with Tammy and Chuck, and they fuss all over me. They pet me. They talk to me. They kiss me on my beautiful furry head. I lick them. I purr. We all lay around like third base until we get hungry or have to use the box.
But not today. Not this Sunday.
Today, my pets jumped right out of bed first thing, so I knew something was up. I didn't like the looks of it, but I always give my pets the benefit of the doubt. I didn't want to jump to the conclusion that they were being bad, but then I heard the cat carrier door furtively rattling in the other room (they think they are so slick! NOT!), so I knew there were games a-paw.
When they weren't looking (they can be horribly disorganized), I ran under the dining room tablecloth and hid on a chair -- not under the bed like usual -- hoping they wouldn't find me. They did. Bummer. I positively refused to get into the carrier, I have my standards, after all, but that didn't stop Tammy from taking me downstairs and putting me into the {GASP!} car! I hate the car! Why the car?! Where are you TAKING me?!
Oh, boy. This must mean I am going to the vet. I HATE THAT.
After an unpleasant 20-minute drive south and into the conservative stronghold of Orange County, they hustled me on my fluffy woobie (woobie: n., a blanket with which one has a history, and to which one is personally emotionally attached) into a building I had never been in before. Uh-oh. There was a lady behind a desk with a clipboard, and that can only mean one thing -- Vet!! VET, VET, VET!!! YIKES!!!
So, I crawled behind Tammy's back while she was sitting down filling out "paperwork" -- another word I hate with a feline passion. I wish Tammy was wider. I think my tail must have been sticking out, because they found me in my hidey-hole, and took me into a room to meet Dr. Vet-Person.
The pleasure was all his, I assure you.
So, Dr. Vet-Person started his shtick about how I needed to be treated for my naughty thyroid with something called I-131, a radioactive isotope of iodine. I listened very closely, but I didn't hear any music. Must be talk-radioisotope. YUCK. Either way, I'd rather not, thank you very much, but no one listens to me...
My pets asked a lot of questions (I have to give them that), and Dr. Vet-Person explained that my "problem" -- I feel fine, really, don't believe the hype -- didn't exist in cats until 1980. "What happened that could have caused this disease to suddenly emerge in 1980?" Dr. Vet-Person mused...
"Reagan?" said Chuck.
Well, that seemed to snap Tammy out of her scared mood, and she hugged Chuck hard for a long time, right in front of Dr. Vet-Person, who didn't seem to get the joke. Did I mention this is Orange County?
Anyway, after a little more quizzing of Dr. Vet-Person, in which Tammy was behaving a lot like that lady on "The Weakest Link" (Tammy can be a very tough interrogator) my pets said their long goodbyes, and left me.
Time to lay down some ground rules; show these humans who is boss.
As soon as the door shut behind my pets, I said to Dr. Vet-Person, "You don't know who you're fooling with, Mister Man!" But he put me in a cage anyway. I yelled, "My mom's The Diva! You'll never get away with this! She'll expose you! Ever heard of The Bastille? She'll have angry Resistance Fighters here to break me out in no time!"
But he just scratched my head and said I was a "good girl." Well... no kidding! I already knew that! And that's not what we were talking about! We were talking about getting me outta here! Help! HELP!!!
Then he brought me Fancy Feast. I like fancy Feast, but that changes nothing, I tell him. I cannot be bought. We are still mortal enemies.
I was going to tell him more, but I got sleepy. I think he put something in that Fancy Feast, is what I think.
And when I woke up, you still weren't here. Where are you, Resistance Fighters? One of your very own is being detained against her will! Habeus Corpus! Writ! Amnesty International! Storm the Bastille!
Missing you in lock-up,
Coco
Feline Freedom Fighter
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