Heck with the cat--I hate going to the vet

Fun was on the itinerary yesterday (not!) as I loaded Hobbes into his giant-sized carrier to take him to the vet. It was time for his annual check-up, and fortunately for both of us, not time for his shots just yet.

The poor guy didn't know what hit him, as I sprung our surprise trip on him as I walked in the door from work.  Poof! The cat carrier just appeared from behind me.  Clink! The door swung open and I quickly shoved the orange stripey into the carrier. Slam! The big guy was behind bars before he could back out.

So far, so good.

I hate going to the vet.  There must be some law that dictates that the mom has the luck of the draw on taking care of everyone--pets included. While that's not fun on the easiest of routine visits, it's the sad visits--the ones in which Fluffy Wuffy doesn't come home with us--that sticks in my mind every time I buckle that carrier into the back seat.  Sigh.  I've been on far too many of those visits and I don't care to repeat them anytime soon.  He's healthy....but...you know....

Hobbes isn't a chatty guy in the car or in the vet's office.  He's quietly stealth in that giant-sized carrier, while Homer, the cat next to us sang the blues from inside his wee cat carrier across from us.  His mom decided to make conversation with me and we compared notes on kitties, dogs, and whatever else came along.

And came along, it did.

As we sat there, talking about the vacancy of the waiting room, I commented on how I don't like to have dogs sniffing my cat carrier while the owner smirks how much "Sparky loves kitties!"--with no regard to the fact that my cat is held hostage to Sparky's nose.  Ugh.  It was pleasantly empty yesterday though--with only blues-singin' Homer and Hobbes...wishing silently that we were done with all of this silliness already.

It was then that a red-faced couple came in holding their pug in a blanket.  My new-found friend exclaimed "Oh! Here comes a dog..." and the couple and their dog rushed into a room quickly. Too quickly.  She looked at me. I looked at her.  And the silence was deafening.

It was one of those visits.

We just sorta looked at each other and tried to change the subject.  Then Homer was called in....and Hobbes soon after.  We smiled and said our good-byes, wishing each other happy vet appointments.

Our visit went well--Hobbes is too fat, but we sorta knew that already.  The doctor was positive, but gave me some suggestions for slimming the big boy down.  She never let Hobbes feel bad--she was all baby-talk and smoochies for the Orange, while telling him that he was "lovely" and never once mentioned him looking like an ottoman or anything like that.

As I was struggling to carry my orange stripey back to the receptionist to pay, the red-faced, and now, gently sobbing couple quickly left the building behind me.  She carried the pug's blanket, he held the door, wiping his eyes.  It broke my heart.

Been there, my friends.

When we got home, Hobbes got two hugs--one for being such a good boy, and the other....well, just for being.  Still.