Yesterday was Trixie’s first vet appointment in a year and the first one since her initial visit right after we adopted her, so she and I were both nervous. I got home at about five-fifteen and started shaking the Pounce bottle. Unlike Pumpy, Trix has never been one to wait by the door for us when we arrive home from work. Usually we have to seek her out, which, you know, makes us feel pretty unloved, but what are you gonna do?
So anyway, the appointment is for six and I figure I’ve got plenty of time to lure her downstairs from her hidey-hole in the attic and get her into the pet taxi.
Well.I was a little off the mark. First of all, she must have known that something was up because she followed me half-way down the stairs listening to the shaking bottle of Pounce but whenever I went to touch her, even to just scratch her ears, she bolted back up the steps. Finally I was able to snatch her up and drag her kicking (literally) and screaming (literally) down the stairs and out the door to the landing of our second floor apartment. I wanted as small a space as possible to get her into the pet taxi. I’d brought the carrier up from the basement over the weekend and left it parked outside the front door in case she had any memory of it from the first time, which might cause her to completely revolt even before she had to.
All right so she’s squirming and fussing like no tomorrow so I call the Beast over to help and he follows us out the front door, closing it all the way so that Trixie can’t bulldoze her way back in. Like the good dad he is, the Beast calms Trix down and gets her into the little carrier pretty quickly and easily. She’s still pretty pissed off about being in there, but at least she’s in.
Then Beast turns to me and says, “Do you have your keys?”
Me: “No, why?”
Stupid question. In answer, the Beast rattles the clearly locked front door.
Okay. Don’t panic. We’ve got a furious cat in a tiny little carrier. Our Vet appointment is now in about fifteen minutes and we’re locked out of the apartment without keys (house or car), cell phones, or money.
Trixie is really frantic now. She’s screaming and shaking the carrier from the inside out. I look at the Beast in horror at what we’ve done. “What are we going to do?” We look under the mat but the key we usually keep there is gone. We could leave but to go where? We could walk to the Vet but pay how?
Finally, I decide to let Trixie out because if we’re stuck here there’s no use torturing her with carrier. About the same time, the Beast walks down the stairs to the main front door. There, under the outside mat is the key to the inside door.
“Who the hell put that THERE?” I practically shrieked, now trying to herd Trixie back over to the carrier. She’s so far from okay with it that it’s not even funny.
“I have no idea. I doesn’t go there,” the Beast said.
“You’re darn tootin’,” I agree.
The Beast uses the key to unlock the door and then he again calmly and carefully gets Trix into the carrier. She’s more than furious now. More than just pissed off. It’s like ludicrous speed on Spaceballs. Whatever notch is passed enraged, that’s where she is.
Now that the door is open and Trix is again in the pet taxi I head inside to get my purse and keys and we’re off.
What does Trixie do in the first five seconds in the car? That’s right. She makes a nice, smelly poo for me to enjoy the whole way to the Vet’s. Luckily, they needed a stool sample so when we get there they’re pretty good-natured about the whole thing.
Of course, once they’ve gotten her out of the taxi (because of course NOW she’s not interested in leaving the safe, dark confines of the carrier) all she wants to do is climb into the sleeve of the jacket I’m wearing. She can’t get close enough and the poor girl is shedding and flaking dry skin like a maniac.
The whole visit doesn’t take longer than thirty minutes and we’re back in the car and heading home in no time. This leg of the trip she’s silent, though, totally ignoring me. I’m trying to talk to her but she’s giving me nothing in return. I try not to feel hurt but honestly, what’s a mom to do?
Once we’re home and she’s scampered off to hide under the bed I notice that during all the hullabaloo she totally clawed through my shirt! Evil child.
Thank God we won’t have to do this again for another year is all I can say. The stress of the entire episode has driven me to a glass of wine and some trash TV. Trixie does not make another appearance before morning.