...our first official vet visit. No, I am not being precious and twee using "we": it was a bit of a traumatic experience for both me AND Trixie. I had never gone to a doctor before to have a small creature for whom I was responsible treated. It's probably a good thing I don't have children. I found myself, unexpectedly, a nervous wreck. The major indicator was that when the technician asked me Trixie's symptoms, I began talking a mile a minute and couldn't get myself to shut up. I felt like a complete dork. When they were about to inject her, I, who have no problem with needles myself, who have watched countless blood draws from my arm without flinching, felt myself curling up in the chair and covering my eyes. How do parents do it?
I stuffed Trixie in the cardboard carrier a few minutes before nine this morning and rushed over to the vet's office, where they'd told me I needed to arrive early to fill out paperwork. It turns out that animal paperwork is very brief and uninvolved, so even the few minutes I budgeted was generous. I sat on the bench in the waiting room across from a woman who was cradling a ridiculously tiny brown dog with protruding black eyes on either side of its bulbous little forehead. It had been prescribed some sort of medication, and the receptionist was explaining how to administer the pills. After she left with the canine smidgen, the receptionist told the tech about a phone call they had received about an elderly German shepherd mix losing its vision who was unable to find its food and water bowl – there had been a request for a PTS. No trouble figuring out that in-house acronym.
Then a beefy man rushed in the door carrying a wadded towel. "What's this?" The receptionist wanted to know. "It's my urine sample." He said. She paused for half a beat while he unwrapped the cup. I'm afraid I chortled from the corner, and he turned to me and asked what was in the box, and if that was the only one I could afford. I told him that it was a cat and that I had two nice carriers, but I couldn't get her in to either of them. "Do you know how hard it is to get a dog to pee a cup?" He asked rhetorically. Most of the sample had spilled on the towel--the lid hadn't been secured properly--but they said there was enough for the test. He offered to top it off if there weren't.
Trixie only meows when I am in the shower. She sits on the bathroom floor, clearly curious as to why I would subject myself to daily drenching, and lifts her voice in concern. But she meowed pitifully while she was mewed up in the carrier and actually hissed repeatedly at the vet when they lifted her out of it. I have been living with her for a month and I had never heard her hiss. She didn't attempt to bite or scratch, but she struggled vigorously, and I was relieved when they offered to take her back into a room out of my sight to wrap her in a towel and give her the necessary jabs. They warned me that she would likely be in a snit and go hide under the bed when we got home, but she merely shook the metaphorical dust from her paws and turned to me purring once we were in our own space. She's a good cat.
She's also potentially a porky little beast. She loves her kibble. Her foster family had told me that she didn't like salmon, and I have since discovered that she doesn't like catfish either. What kind of cat doesn't like fish?! But she adores chicken flavored stuff, and eats every pellet of food that rattles into her dish in the bathroom. Every time I go in there, she sprints in hopefully, looking up a me with round, innocent, "I am a poor starving kitty cat" eyes, and so I'd upped her portions. But then I observed that she was getting a bit of a gut, and the vet assured me today that limiting her intake was reasonable. I reprogrammed the feeder when I got home.