When I told our niece that we were planning to take Frankie to the vet to have his teeth cleaned, she asked if we would also take her kitten to be "fixed". I said sure, put him in the travel crate, and we'll be happy to take him along.
When we got to the vet, Frankie started his quivery routine--shaking, making little soft whimpering sounds deep in his throat, and poking me in the face with his wet nose. I told Wick to fill out the paperwork for the kitten and I would do it for Frankie.
The little girl behind the desk asked, What is the kitten's name?
Wick said, Beats the heck out of me. Call him Squirt.
She giggled, and then asked, boy or girl?
He said, Beats the heck out of me.
She giggled again, in disbelief. You don't know if it's a boy or a girl?
He said, Nope--it's not my cat.
Girl: What's he here for?
Wick: To be fixed.
Girl: Hmmm....well, okay, then I'll just put "Castorated", since that will work for a boy or a girl.
Me: (thinking) okay, first, that is not how castrated is pronounced or spelled, and second, the kitten can't be "castorated" if he is a she....but whatever.
The vet tech took Frankie and the kitten back to the other room, and we left.
When we came back in the afternoon, the vet tech brought out the kitten, and the conversation resumed.
Girl: Hey y'all, he's a she, so we "spaded" him.
Wick: Well, that's good that you didn't "castorate" her.
Vet tech: Who are you here for?
Me: Frankie the pom.
Vet tech: okay, I know where he is, I'll go get him.
He left. And he was gone....and gone....and gone.... and when he came back, he said: He won't let me take him out of the crate.
Wick: I'll get him.
He left. And he was gone...and gone...and gone...and finally the vet tech came back and said: he won't let him take him out of the crate either.
So I said: Oh, please--I'll go get him myself.
When I got there, the vet (a man) and the vet tech (also a man) and Wick (most definitely a man) were standing in front of the crate, and there was Frankie, backed up in the furtherest corner of the crate, doing a credible imitation of Cujo the rabid dog. Teeth bared, full throated growls, darting forward to snap at the three men, then retreating into the corner again.
The vet said: After all we have put him through today, getting his shots, being sedated, getting his teeth cleaned, I think he has had it with men.
I stepped forward, and in my lowest, sweetest, poor-baby voice, said: What's the matter, Frankie?
He lept into my arms, practically sobbing with relief. The vet tech said: He snapped at me.
Wick said: What's worse, he snapped at me!
I had Frankie cradled on my shoulder, like the fur baby he is, when Wick tried again to pet him--and he snapped at him again.
Once we paid all the fees, bundled up the kitten in her crate, and got back into the truck, Frankie wobbled over to Wick, sniffed deeply a couple of times, then licked his hand, as if to apologize for snapping at him.
Then he collapsed in my lap, fell fast asleep, and began to snore. Poor little guy, he had had a rough day, and the sedative still had not worn off.
We are back home now, after being on the road for the biggest part of the past three weeks, and Frankie has finally begun to relax. But he is still on his guard, afraid that his summer adventures are not yet behind him.
He is going to go berserk when we start moving back into the RV for the school year that begins next Monday.