My cat was acting wierd.

Which isn't really saying much because she's my cat. I talk to her about Kierkegaard, and she keeps suffocating me in my sleep because in 5 years she hasn't figured out that she can't curl up on my face.


She kept yowling piteously and acting listless. She didn't want to sit down and her hind end seemed tender, but she wouldn't let me inspect it.

It's not like her to meow like that for an hour. Sure, if I haven't been home for a week, or she's having an existential crisis about reading Steppenwolf, but for no reason? Nope. She's usually pretty quiet.

So I ran to Petco because, of course, the two people I know who have cat carriers aren't speaking to me, and apparently I threw out the cardboard one I had. I schlepped the carrier back and found an emergency animal clinic on the Upper East.

My cat was abused before I adopted her. So I couldn't blame her for not wanting to go into the carrier. I mean, I've had cats who weren't abused who hated the carrier. But you add some feline PTSD into the equation, and you have Serious Carrier Issues.

Still it's a 14 pound cat VS a person who weights, uh, more than that.

But I'm not nearly that flexible with pointy teeth and claws. Picture a furry feral version of Nadia Comaneci, and you get the picture.

After many failed attempts on the couch, I closed us in the bathroom and shoved her yowling and hissing into the carrier. I'm sure if one of my neighbors walked by they would have thought I was drowning her in the toilet.

I got her into a cab and took it to where Mapquest said the place would be.

Which it wasn't.

Ok I was panicked. I wasn't fully awake, and my cat was sick. So I should have called the place instead of trusting mapquest.

Luckily I had the address and so once I realized the mistake, I schlepped her to the correct address. Of course, the entire way she is yowling, I'm trying to comfort her, people are crossing the street saying, "What 's up with the dwarf whose got a disgruntled pussy?"

So sweating and huffing I get to the Park East Animal Hospital. As I sat in the waiting room (it was a very short wait), I was trying to comfort my cat and not become hysterical because I know this has to be terrifying, and I can't explain it her. I can't tell her, "Look, I know you think what I've done is terrible. I know you hate this carrier, and you're scared, but it's the only way you'll feel better."

Because sometimes we have to do horrible painful scary things in order to help. Sometimes we can't explain. Sometimes we have to betray trust in order to heal.

So I'm sticking my finger through the grate to scratch her chin, and I'm telling her that everything is going to be OK even though she doesn't understand.

The vet and the staff were great. When the nurse realized they were going to have to take my cat to a treatment room to shave her (turns out she has a rash), she said, "We're going to take her upstairs and wrap her front end in towels, like a big burrito, so she won't stratch us." Later she was very careful and thorough about explaining how to administer and measure the meds. I wish the staff at most hospitals were this careful about explaining meds and treatment to patients.

All of this took about an hour. Now we are home. She, predictably, is hiding probably hurt and furious and confused that the person who has taken care of her all this time has subject her to so much terror.

I'm tired and stressed and honestly humiliated by what I have had to put her through. I 'm gonna get a martini so big it's going to have a shallow end and diving board.

I'm never having kids. I can barely handle the vet.

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