Monday, November 5, 2012

The One Where Beansie Goes to The Vet. Twice

Bean is, by nature, a friendly, goofy beast.

That all changes the instant she gets in the car. At that point, she becomes a psycho. A psycho who wants nothing more than to bite the crap out of the first person she sees at the vet.

Going to the vet, as a result, is mildly horrifying. It's traumatic for both of us. For her, because she's scared and so does her best angry dinsosaur impersonation, and for me because -- well, I don't REALLY want her to bite anyone's face off, and seeing her so unhappy makes me rather unhappy.

But sometimes, it has to be done.

Scratch that: Friday afternoon, it had to be done.

I should say here that some cats will not get into a pet carrier without a fight. Not so with Beansie. Here's how I get her in the carrier:

1. Put the carrier on the floor.

2. Open the door

3. Watch Beansie walk DIRECTLY into the carrier.

4. Close the door behind her.

I may have mentioned this a few times, but she's not very bright. She pretty much always gets right into the carrier -- and then, once latch it closed behind her, gives me the look of ultimate betrayal. It never fails to make me feel like a piece of kitty-tricking slime.

She's pretty good in the carrier though. That is, until I put it in the car and then put the car in gear. That's when she would lead me to believe that I have closed Jack the Ripper in the carrier with her and he's trying to KILL HER and I am the mean, horrible woman who doesn't even CARE.

She expresses this through highly emotive yowling. Which, again, makes me feel TERRIBLE. We have conversations like this all the way to the vet:


Me: I know, this sucks, huh?


Me: I think that it's really good that you're expressing your feelings, though. Get it all out! Share!


Me: What? I did NOT run that light. It was still yellow. We're good.


And then she peed on herself in terror, which I don't think is related to my driving skills, but you never know. So now she was unhappy because she was wet, and stinky, and in the carrier in the car.

Finally, with one last YOOOOWWWWLLLLLL we were there.

We waited our turn and people kept ignoring the stench of cat pee that was wafting off her carrier and peeking in. "Ooooh, she's so PRETTY," one lady said while her little girl looked like she wanted nothing more than to stick her hands in the carrier and pat Bean, who was at last sitting quietly.

"Thank you. Uh, I wouldn't do that, sweetie," I said to her daughter. "She's ... bitey ... right now."

The visit was, thankfully, fairly brief. The doctor took one look at a visibly pissed, forcibly restrained Bean and said, "Maybe we'll pass on taking her temperature." It was her last appointment of the day, and wrangling 15.5 pounds of angry, snarling, Beansie-beast was not enjoyable for anyone.

"Okay," I said.

Rabies shot. Done. Distemper. Done. De-worming (because she's managed to get tapeworms somehow). Done. Lecture on overfeeding her. (Which, in my defense, I don't do!) Done.

Back in the carrier.


Me: I KNOW! That went SO WELL!


Me: I am going to go home and drink heavily!


We got home. She bounced out of the carrier and began to wash. I washed out the carrier and had a beer. She got into my lap. We were good.

We were NOT GOOD.

Bean wakes me up EVERY morning. Every one. Like clockwork. She purrs and chews my hair until I get up to feed her.

Saturday morning? She didn't wake me up. When I got up at the ungodly late hour of 7:15, she had puked. Not awesome.

"Poor bug," I said. I got her kitty treats and her food.

She ignored me.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. "Bean!" I said. "Come get it!" This brings her running EVERY DAY.

She ignored me.

I went over to her and tried to pat her.

She GROWLED at me.

And then threw up twice more.

To make a long story short (or at least a little less long) I called the vet. I called my best friend who said she'd come with. I got out the carrier.

For the first time in her life, Bean looked at the carrier, looked at me, and gave me a look that said, quite plainly, SCREW YOU.

I grabbed her (ignoring the growling) and stuffed her in. For the second time in less than 24 hours, we were back in the car.

Bean: YOWL.

Even her sad kitty cries were subdued. And then she started panting.

Kristen was talking to her. I was talking to myself. (Okay, Yellie, this is a meltdown free car. No meltdowns. We're allllll gooood.)

The vet decided that Bean was having an allergic reaction to the deworming meds. She took her temperature.

Bean handled that ... poorly.

She gave her an antinausea shot.

Bean did her best impersonation of a rabid wildebeast.

She gave her a Benedryl shot. Before she did, the vet looked at me and said, quietly, "Um. This one stings a little."


Forget yowling. Forget hissing and biting. She was doing the kitty equivalent of screaming, and the whole time she was looking right at me, like, "How could you POSSIBLY let this happen to me?"

That was when I did have a meltdown. The ugly-cry kind too, because I felt terrible. And also, embarassed that I was crying in the vet's office. (The vet was very nice about it and passed me tissues. I guess I'm not the only one who does this.)

I'm happy to say that Beansie and I have both recovered from her adventure. She started eating again on Saturday afternoon. She also stopped growling at me. She decided I was her friend again Saturday night, and spent all day yesterday glued to my person. She is sitting in my lap as I type.

Me: We're good now, right buddy?

Bean: Puurrrrrrrrrrrrr

Best. Reply. Ever.

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