Well, El Hubbo is gone again, and of course there is too much to do, not enough time to do it, and no one to help. I seem to be caught on a treadmill set to too high a speed on an incline. I race here and there, when I am home, I run about the house trying (and failing) to pick up, clean up, etc. In addition to work and church, we have to squeeze in Spanish lessons (Jake), boy scouts, and the occasional workout (which I am trying to make non-optional since I really would like to live to see these kids pay for everything they do to me). To top it off, I got to add a trip to the vet today.
While many of you probably think we utilize a vet for our offspring, you would be wrong. (Granted, my experience working for a vet, and El Hubbo's experience doctoring hogs and other barnyard animals does make us a little more willing to try home remedies for general ailments, aches, and pains.) No, this trip was indeed for the four-legged livestock living in our home.
You have heard of the exploits of Rocky, our English Springer Spaniel. He's 45 pounds of always-excited-to-see-you, tail-waggin', kid-lickin', flat-foot-jump-6-feet-in-the-air hunting dog. He loves you, me, and everyone. El Hubbo often comments that if someone broke in, Rocky would hold the bag and point out where the good stuff was for them. He's happy, and he wants you to be happy, too.
Then there is Mab. (Pronounced with the short "A", for you grammar buffs.) Mab is my black-and-white, gorgeous-and-she-knows-it cat. Mab loves one person. (Fortunately, that is me.) She tolerates El Hubbo. She's rather disdainful of the kid-population in the house. She actively torments Rocky. All the rest of both humanity and the animal kingdom she views as unnecessary evils. When I was young, and living in Houston, I thought I needed a pet. I went to the SPCA, where there was this little kitten, sick as can be, flea-ridden, mite-infested, etc. The agency really didn't think she'd live, but I talked them into giving me a chance - and I nursed that little cat back to health. And she loves me for it. For many years, it was just her and me, and she would still prefer it that way. After El Hubbo and I were married for about a year and a half, she finally allowed him to scratch her ears, but in her mind she is the queen, he is her manservant. I did name her after a queen - Queen Mab - the Irish queen of black magic. (For you Shakespeare buffs, ol' Will mentions Mab as the "Queen of dreams" in Romeo and Juliet - bonus points if you knew that.) Mab is anti-social and quite frankly, she could care less if you are happy or not.
Now, I am sure you are forming a picture in your mind regarding how this little trip went. And you are probably not far wrong.
I took the entire afternoon off from work. Almost two full hours prior to the appointment, I headed home to start the process of loading up the livestock. Why two hours you ask? Well, let me explain.
The first step in the process is to find the cat carrier - I had vaguely remembered seeing it in the garage. Turns out I was right - but it was covered in about an inch of West Texas dust. Joy. So, I locate a rag and try to blow and wipe the dust off. After this exercise in futility, I attempt to sneak the carrier into the house without Mab noticing. "She's just a cat", you say? "Surely she wouldn't know to run for the hills when she sees the carrier?" Yeah. You are wrong.
You see, Mab was named after a witch. (I think all cats should be named after witches.) Witches are very smart, and usually evil. Mab took one look at that carrier. I made the unfortunate mistake of blinking. Witches are very good at many things, including disappearing, especially if you blink. A search through my closet resulted in nothing but locating an old candy bar Emma had apparently left behind when hiding from her brother. I turned to search El Hubbo's closet - wading through mounds of smelly boots, hangars, paper and plastic from the dry cleaners, and travel bags resulted in another fail. I get down on the floor to check under the bed - Jackpot! There she is - just out of reach. And there is no way, even at my skinniest that I would fit under that bed.
I refuse to be outsmarted by my cat. So, I grab a broom - try to poke/prod her into moving where I can snag her. No such luck - she ducked and dodged like prizefighter in the championship match. She even had the nerve to swat back at the stick. Frustrated, I grab a shoe - toss it at her. She hisses at me, but doesn't give an inch. We begin a staring contest of epic proportions. Finally, I develop a plan to utilize my strengths to overcome the situation. I begin to stuff a bunch of "stuff" under the bed - she is eventually forced out. (I'll send the short ones in the house under the bed later to retrieve it all.) I grab her up and the process of stuffing her into the carrier begins.
She is almost 14 years old. She has never liked the carrier. After fourteen trips to the vet, she has become very adept at scratching, howling, biting, and anything else she can think of to avoid being zipped up in the carrier. She is only 10 lbs, but she is tough. After fourteen trips to the vet, I've learned a thing or two as well. I wish I had learned to make sure the carrier was unzipped before I attempted to catch her. After I had unzipped the carrier with my teeth and feet (yes, I would like to have seen that on video, too) I then started to shove her in. She grabbed the outer side of the carrier with both feet and sunk in her claws. I'm not entirely sure how to describe what happened next - I think it was probably like a real-life version of a cartoon tornado with the occasional paw, fist, carrier, etc. peeking out. I finally managed to get her in, get it zipped before she escaped, and spit out the dust and hair I had sucked in during the process.
She began her mowling/screaming profanities at me. At least, I am guessing by the tone she was cursing me and my entire ancestry. I may have had a few not nice thoughts about her at this moment.
I take her to the car, and return for round two with Rocky. This was much less a battle as it was more a self-defense exercise, as sometimes with Rocky, love hurts. Especially when your earrings get caught in the feathery hair on his ears while you are trying to attach the leash to his collar. (Note to self: remove all hardware prior to future vet trip.) Once he is on the leash, your challenge is to herd him in the right direction of the car. As he jumps, spins, wraps the leash around your legs, and is generally too excited to follow any of the obedience commands that you know he knows. But, once he sees the car door open, he excitedly dives in, ready for a trip to anywhere.
I grab my purse and off we go. We arrive at the vet clinic, and Mab is still expressing her displeasure. I somehow manage to get my purse and the cat carrier on my shoulder and grab the leash as Rocky dives past me out of the car. He jerks me this way and that, but eventually I get him in the door.
Rocky has a reputation here. He has more than once "sprung" up on the counter to greet the receptionist. I see he take one look at him as he bounds in, and she braces for the worst. I have learned however, to stop a leash length short of the counter and brace myself. Rocky leaps, the leash tightens, he is yanked back through the air, and finds himself dazed and confused as to how he was denied the pleasure of giving the receptionist a big ol' kiss.
Once in the exam room, I put Mab down (still screeching), and watch Rocky jump up on the exam table, down to the floor, up on the exam table, down to the floor, up on the exam table, down on the floor. (You get the idea.) I peruse the outdated AKC breeds chart, thinking Mab may get replaced by a King Charles Spaniel if she doesn't shut up soon.
In comes the very nice vet. He loves Rocky, and of course, Rocky loves him. Rocky practically sticks his paw out for them to draw blood, doesn't even wince as he gets his shots. Gives kisses to everyone involved. Checks out ok - good for another year.
I get Rocky down, and manage to somehow get him to lie down on the floor. I put Mab's carrier on the table and the vet and I look across at each other. A silent expression of resolution passes between us. We are comrades-in-arms, and we will be entering battle together. I ask him if he's ready, he nods ascent - I unzip the carrier. Since she is my cat, I am elected to reach in and grab her. I wave my hand back and forth hoping to lull her with my snake charm movements - I dart my hand in quickly and managed to grab her by the nape of the neck in one quick motion. The vet pulls the carrier back and VOILA! We have a cat uncaged! I quickly tuck her under my arm and assume the hold least likely to result in scratches requiring the vet to stitch me up. He gets up close and personal to both me and Mab (the only way this was going to happen, really) and gives her the shots. He puts the carrier back on the counter and helps me shove her back in. "She's not too friendly, huh?" he says. I hold back the sarcastic comment that immediately came to mind and just thanked him for his service.
Somehow I managed to not pass out when I was informed of the bill. These two little knuckleheads cost me more than the human two. I wrestle them back into the car, and start the drive home, with Rocky breathing in my ear, and occasionally giving me a kiss on the cheek, thanking me for his excursion. And, with Mab continuing to rail against me and all my kind and casting all kinds of spells guaranteed to get even with me.
Lest you think one would take some time to recover from such an event, sadly, no. I rush around doing a few chores, then I pick up the kids, we rush to the gym, then we rush home, then more chores. Needless, to say, I am ready to collapse. It is now several hours later, Mab has forgiven me and is laying next to me quietly purring and enjoying the fact that it is just me and her in the bed. All is forgiven, until next time.
While many of you probably think we utilize a vet for our offspring, you would be wrong. (Granted, my experience working for a vet, and El Hubbo's experience doctoring hogs and other barnyard animals does make us a little more willing to try home remedies for general ailments, aches, and pains.) No, this trip was indeed for the four-legged livestock living in our home.
You have heard of the exploits of Rocky, our English Springer Spaniel. He's 45 pounds of always-excited-to-see-you, tail-waggin', kid-lickin', flat-foot-jump-6-feet-in-the-air hunting dog. He loves you, me, and everyone. El Hubbo often comments that if someone broke in, Rocky would hold the bag and point out where the good stuff was for them. He's happy, and he wants you to be happy, too.
Then there is Mab. (Pronounced with the short "A", for you grammar buffs.) Mab is my black-and-white, gorgeous-and-she-knows-it cat. Mab loves one person. (Fortunately, that is me.) She tolerates El Hubbo. She's rather disdainful of the kid-population in the house. She actively torments Rocky. All the rest of both humanity and the animal kingdom she views as unnecessary evils. When I was young, and living in Houston, I thought I needed a pet. I went to the SPCA, where there was this little kitten, sick as can be, flea-ridden, mite-infested, etc. The agency really didn't think she'd live, but I talked them into giving me a chance - and I nursed that little cat back to health. And she loves me for it. For many years, it was just her and me, and she would still prefer it that way. After El Hubbo and I were married for about a year and a half, she finally allowed him to scratch her ears, but in her mind she is the queen, he is her manservant. I did name her after a queen - Queen Mab - the Irish queen of black magic. (For you Shakespeare buffs, ol' Will mentions Mab as the "Queen of dreams" in Romeo and Juliet - bonus points if you knew that.) Mab is anti-social and quite frankly, she could care less if you are happy or not.
Now, I am sure you are forming a picture in your mind regarding how this little trip went. And you are probably not far wrong.
I took the entire afternoon off from work. Almost two full hours prior to the appointment, I headed home to start the process of loading up the livestock. Why two hours you ask? Well, let me explain.
The first step in the process is to find the cat carrier - I had vaguely remembered seeing it in the garage. Turns out I was right - but it was covered in about an inch of West Texas dust. Joy. So, I locate a rag and try to blow and wipe the dust off. After this exercise in futility, I attempt to sneak the carrier into the house without Mab noticing. "She's just a cat", you say? "Surely she wouldn't know to run for the hills when she sees the carrier?" Yeah. You are wrong.
You see, Mab was named after a witch. (I think all cats should be named after witches.) Witches are very smart, and usually evil. Mab took one look at that carrier. I made the unfortunate mistake of blinking. Witches are very good at many things, including disappearing, especially if you blink. A search through my closet resulted in nothing but locating an old candy bar Emma had apparently left behind when hiding from her brother. I turned to search El Hubbo's closet - wading through mounds of smelly boots, hangars, paper and plastic from the dry cleaners, and travel bags resulted in another fail. I get down on the floor to check under the bed - Jackpot! There she is - just out of reach. And there is no way, even at my skinniest that I would fit under that bed.
I refuse to be outsmarted by my cat. So, I grab a broom - try to poke/prod her into moving where I can snag her. No such luck - she ducked and dodged like prizefighter in the championship match. She even had the nerve to swat back at the stick. Frustrated, I grab a shoe - toss it at her. She hisses at me, but doesn't give an inch. We begin a staring contest of epic proportions. Finally, I develop a plan to utilize my strengths to overcome the situation. I begin to stuff a bunch of "stuff" under the bed - she is eventually forced out. (I'll send the short ones in the house under the bed later to retrieve it all.) I grab her up and the process of stuffing her into the carrier begins.
She is almost 14 years old. She has never liked the carrier. After fourteen trips to the vet, she has become very adept at scratching, howling, biting, and anything else she can think of to avoid being zipped up in the carrier. She is only 10 lbs, but she is tough. After fourteen trips to the vet, I've learned a thing or two as well. I wish I had learned to make sure the carrier was unzipped before I attempted to catch her. After I had unzipped the carrier with my teeth and feet (yes, I would like to have seen that on video, too) I then started to shove her in. She grabbed the outer side of the carrier with both feet and sunk in her claws. I'm not entirely sure how to describe what happened next - I think it was probably like a real-life version of a cartoon tornado with the occasional paw, fist, carrier, etc. peeking out. I finally managed to get her in, get it zipped before she escaped, and spit out the dust and hair I had sucked in during the process.
She began her mowling/screaming profanities at me. At least, I am guessing by the tone she was cursing me and my entire ancestry. I may have had a few not nice thoughts about her at this moment.
I take her to the car, and return for round two with Rocky. This was much less a battle as it was more a self-defense exercise, as sometimes with Rocky, love hurts. Especially when your earrings get caught in the feathery hair on his ears while you are trying to attach the leash to his collar. (Note to self: remove all hardware prior to future vet trip.) Once he is on the leash, your challenge is to herd him in the right direction of the car. As he jumps, spins, wraps the leash around your legs, and is generally too excited to follow any of the obedience commands that you know he knows. But, once he sees the car door open, he excitedly dives in, ready for a trip to anywhere.
I grab my purse and off we go. We arrive at the vet clinic, and Mab is still expressing her displeasure. I somehow manage to get my purse and the cat carrier on my shoulder and grab the leash as Rocky dives past me out of the car. He jerks me this way and that, but eventually I get him in the door.
Rocky has a reputation here. He has more than once "sprung" up on the counter to greet the receptionist. I see he take one look at him as he bounds in, and she braces for the worst. I have learned however, to stop a leash length short of the counter and brace myself. Rocky leaps, the leash tightens, he is yanked back through the air, and finds himself dazed and confused as to how he was denied the pleasure of giving the receptionist a big ol' kiss.
Once in the exam room, I put Mab down (still screeching), and watch Rocky jump up on the exam table, down to the floor, up on the exam table, down to the floor, up on the exam table, down on the floor. (You get the idea.) I peruse the outdated AKC breeds chart, thinking Mab may get replaced by a King Charles Spaniel if she doesn't shut up soon.
In comes the very nice vet. He loves Rocky, and of course, Rocky loves him. Rocky practically sticks his paw out for them to draw blood, doesn't even wince as he gets his shots. Gives kisses to everyone involved. Checks out ok - good for another year.
I get Rocky down, and manage to somehow get him to lie down on the floor. I put Mab's carrier on the table and the vet and I look across at each other. A silent expression of resolution passes between us. We are comrades-in-arms, and we will be entering battle together. I ask him if he's ready, he nods ascent - I unzip the carrier. Since she is my cat, I am elected to reach in and grab her. I wave my hand back and forth hoping to lull her with my snake charm movements - I dart my hand in quickly and managed to grab her by the nape of the neck in one quick motion. The vet pulls the carrier back and VOILA! We have a cat uncaged! I quickly tuck her under my arm and assume the hold least likely to result in scratches requiring the vet to stitch me up. He gets up close and personal to both me and Mab (the only way this was going to happen, really) and gives her the shots. He puts the carrier back on the counter and helps me shove her back in. "She's not too friendly, huh?" he says. I hold back the sarcastic comment that immediately came to mind and just thanked him for his service.
Somehow I managed to not pass out when I was informed of the bill. These two little knuckleheads cost me more than the human two. I wrestle them back into the car, and start the drive home, with Rocky breathing in my ear, and occasionally giving me a kiss on the cheek, thanking me for his excursion. And, with Mab continuing to rail against me and all my kind and casting all kinds of spells guaranteed to get even with me.
Lest you think one would take some time to recover from such an event, sadly, no. I rush around doing a few chores, then I pick up the kids, we rush to the gym, then we rush home, then more chores. Needless, to say, I am ready to collapse. It is now several hours later, Mab has forgiven me and is laying next to me quietly purring and enjoying the fact that it is just me and her in the bed. All is forgiven, until next time.
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