Doc B decided we better stop posting feline photos on Facebook before we get a pejoratively-described reputation and have to rename our home Grey Gardens. Since our cats are our children, I’m not sure if I can abide by the Facebook ban and I’m certain I can’t on this blog. The kitties give me so much material; take this past Friday for example.
The other night we noticed that Butter Bean, one of our two FIV kitty cats, had been trying to scratch himself by rubbing his hind end on my favorite, most expensive, only, Tibetan wool rug. While I was mainly troubled by what he was doing to our carpet, Doc B was rightfully concerned about our cat and why he might be demonstrating such a behavior. As is the norm, we didn’t have any plans for Friday night, so Doc B decided to leave work early and get him a 5:00 pm vet appointment. I felt bad about Doc B having to deal with this alone, so I skipped yoga and got to work early so I too could get home in time to help. We’d still be able to close out the evening by tossing a frozen pizza in the oven, watching some DVR’d Modern Family episodes and hitting the sack at a decent hour. (And believe it or not, I even convinced Doc B to watch the University of Michigan bounce into March Madness overtime and ultimately move on in the brackets…not the case for my Alma Mater, Michigan State – bummer).
So at 4:45 pm we loaded up the cat carrier with our dear Butter Bean and made our way to the vet. Because it was a Friday night in Atlanta, we knew it would take 10 minutes to go the 1 mile to the animal hospital and then another 5 minutes to jockey for a parking space (since the vet shares a parking lot with a liquor store).
I agreed to carry in all 16.9 pounds of pussy cat while Doc B signed us in. We joined several others in the waiting room with their matching pups and kitties (don’t tell me you’ve never noticed how much pets look like their owners). Not long after we sat down, one of the receptionists came around from behind the counter and approached us with a smile. I’m sure this was her attempt to maintain some type of confidentiality, but she might as well have yelled it from behind the counter: “so, your cat is scooting?” We curled ourselves up into little balls and awkwardly replied “yes ma’am”. Then she said, even louder, “it’s probably his anal glands; we’ll send a technician right out”. I could feel all eyes on us, not just the eyes of the people in the waiting room, but the pets too. Mortified, I found a urine stain on the linoleum floor and stared at it until it burned an image on my retina.
We waited in shame until the technician came out to get us. She took us back to one of the examination rooms, asked us a few details and said the doctor would be with us shortly. We envisioned the tech jokingly announcing us to the vet by saying “two women and their scooting cat in exam room number one.”
When the vet finally entered the examination room, she was awesome. She loved on Butter Bean like he was her one and only cat. She took care of everything in minutes, acted like this was part of her normal work day, and sent us on our way. I slipped out to the car with the kitty while Doc B paid our bill. It all turned out okay.
It must be a Friday night trend because, interestingly, even back in 2007 I was doing something similar on a Friday night. Some things never change.