My cat is on antibiotics. Cat fight = abscess = shaving, draining, and clavamax twice a day. You cat owners out there know the drill.
So yesterday I tricked Ben into the cat carrier. I always feel a little bad about that. When the carrier comes into the house, Meeko is gone in a flash. She's a smart cat. She knows what the box implies and wants no part of it. Ben, on the other hand, is. . . well. . . a little simpler. Hey Mom! Want to scratch my head? Hey, you have a box! What's in the box, Mom? Mom? You know, it's funny, because it almost looks like that box that I go in when you take me to the. . . Oh crap! It's sad. You can almost watch the realization cross his little face, but by then he's been shoved half way in the box and there is nothing to be done.
He serenaded me all the way to the vet's office and sang an encore in the waiting room. 20 minutes and $78 dollars later, he was headed home again. Shawn picked him up from me at the vet's office so I could catch a 5:00 ballet class.
I got home last night. "How's our patient?" Shawn informed me that he had got most of the antibiotics down Ben's throat before he took off under the bed and set up camp. Oh well. He'll come out eventually.
Then Shawn and I settled down to watch some cartoons. A few minutes into it, Ben saunters into the living room. "Oh, look who's decided to grace us with his presence," Shawn says. Ben walks right up to the couch, stops in front of Shawn's shoes, and pukes all over them. Then he pukes next to the barricaded cat door and goes right back to hide under the bed.
I lean over to my husband. "I think he might be mad at you."