As if I needed another reason to avoid this place

So a while back a cat adopted our family.  An indoor, outdoor long haired, white cat.  He is sweet and gentle and perfectly odd.  He sleeps in the keyboard or the dinner table, or on my husband’s shoe.  He fits in well with our family.  And we love him.  Lately though he has been looking a little mangy.  Okay, well a lot mangy.  Kind of more orange than white, with bits of bark hanging off him.  So into the tub he goes.  He lays in the water, rolls around, sticks his face under the running faucet.  He’s really laid back.  Kind of hippie-ish.  In fact I find that he has dread locks on his belly.  Great.  I discover that he has fleas. . . in the freaking winter. FUCK.
 
Between the dreadlocks and the fleas I figure I only have two options.  Either teach him how to do bong hits and play Frisbee, or take him to a professional groomer.  Since I don’t know where to buy tiny cat Frisbees, I booked him an appointment to a vet/groomer that has been in the area since my mom was a young woman taking in random stray cats.

The lady on the phone was very nice.  There might be an extra charge to de-Rasta the kitty, he’d need a rabies booster, and he’d have to be there by 9.  I didn’t need a cat carrier; bring him in a pillowcase if I wanted too.  Of course they understood that because he was a stray I wouldn’t have much of a history for him. 

Because of the fleas the kitty has been banned from the house, so this morning I had to track him down.  This is normally easy.  I open the door and there he is.  But this morning it was raining, and he’s no where to be seen.  I circle the block, shaking a bowl of food and calling for him in the rain.  Surprisingly, I was not the weirdest person wondering around my neighborhood at 8:45 this morning..  After a 20 minute search the stupid cat comes running from under the house, which was btw, the 1^st, 5^th and 12^th place I looked.

I put him in a wicker basket, on top of the pillowcase.  It seemed a bad idea to put him in the case, I mean we’re going to the vets, not a river.  He sat nicely, he looked out the window, he batted at the windshield wipers.  He flirted with the drive through coffee shop lady.  He’s a charmer.

We get to the vets both of us in pretty good moods.  Apparently the gorgon behind the counter did not get the Happy Friday memo.  As I’m filling out the paperwork she starts in.

You don’t have a carrier?

I do, but the wicker basket matched my outfit. “No, and I was told I didn’t have to have one.” 

*Frown*  “All cats must be in a carrier”

“I was told I could bring him in a pillowcase. . . .it’s in the basket with him.”

“We called your number; you are 15 minutes late for your appointment”

“Have you ever tried to catch an outdoor cat in the rain?  It takes longer than you might think.”

“No, Are his vaccines current?

“I have no idea, he’s a stray.”

“Is he neutered?”

“Don’t know, he’s a stray. He might not even be a he”

“You’re not sure?”

“Not a high priority in my life”

*Sigh*, deeper frown. . “Well how old is he?”

“See that’s something I would know if he wasn’t a stray.  But he is, so I don’t know.”

“I’m just trying to get the most complete profile here, ma’am.”

I understand, but before you ask me another question, ask yourself if that something a stranger would no about him. If not, then I won’t know the answer.  Bitch.

A few hours later a perfectly pleasant woman calls to tell me that the kitty is ready, and that she can be picked up any time.  The lady says she was a pleasure to groom and that even though she had to be shaved bald, that she didn’t complain a bit.  That’s right.  SHE.  Not only does that vet render bitches pleasant via some odd telephone technology, but it also turns boy strays into girl strays. Hmm.