Yesterday was a dreaded day. It was a day I hat to put my cat in a carrier to get him to the vet.
He’s now 14 years old, and he’s definitely mellowed in his old age. I’m not sure if it’s slightly easier to get him in his carrier now because of that or because we’ve perfected the two-day, multi-stepped process of accomplishing it.
My cat is an asshole. And by that I mean that he has had us hiding in closets before. So, when it’s time for him to go to the vet, I have a little anxiety.
Here’s the process:
1. The night before – clip his front nails (he will not allow back nails)
2. Get carrier out of closet, hide it in closed bathroom (it has to be in a very small room so he has nowhere to go if I miss on the first try), propped up against the wall with the door already open.
3. Wait overnight for him to forget that he saw me get his carrier out.
4. Next day, pretend there’s nothing up until time to make my move.
5. Say a prayer, and grab him, hopefully while he is relaxing in an easily accessible spot.
6. Briskly move to the bathroom, scruffing him and weathering the thrashing.
7. Hold on for dear life as he sees the carrier; shove him head first into it, adjusting the placement of his legs as he tries to straddle the opening.
8. Apologize once he’s in there, because he will eventually be out.
This time I sustained very minor injuries – no blood!
We made it to the vet, bonus points for bringing one of the dogs, too. The vet visit went fine, which is a huge improvement – this is the big area where you can tell he’s gotten older. Young Elliott would have screamed and hissed a lot.
Once he gets back into his carrier (which, when at the vet, is like an upscale resort he can’t wait to get back to), we drive home. And, after about three minutes of realizing the next stop is home and out of the carrier – he starts to yell at me. So the ride home is usually me singing along to loud music while he tries to be heard. This time was no exception.