My cat is not well-behaved. He’s not well-behaved at home, on Prozac, so let’s just paint a picture of what he’s like at the vet:

Imagine, friends, a ball of fur/teeth/claws/psychosis zipping from corner to corner and making the most (admittedly comical, although they weren’t at the time!) obnoxiously loud screaming noises – NOT a happy kitty. Unfortunately, he was a kitty that needed his shots… but if I had known what the cost of getting them would be, I would have never taken him there in the first place.

Unfortunately, after a few minutes of trying, and complete refusal of my insistence that I could handle him just fine (and my willingness to sign a release waiving my right to keep my limbs…), the vet gave up and informed me that he would have to be sedated (“boxed”) in order for her to get a blood sample (because they told me he was underweight – which he absolutely was not), give him his shots and clip his nails. Since he lets me clip his nails like he’s getting a manicure, I was already pretty perturbed that they thought this was necessary, but I wanted him to get a good exam, so I relented.

Apparently, it’s common practice to sedate “difficult” cats by shoving them into a Tupperware container and gassing them until they pass out – do they monitor heart rate? Nope. Do they check vitals to see the affect anesthesia might have on them? Nope. They label them as troublemakers, shove them in a box, and turn on the gas. That vet = Hitler.

Needless to say, I was a wreck, and when she called me back to see him, I was ecstatic. It was then that I saw my cat’s almost lifeless body laying on the table. “He’ll wake up in a second,” she told me. 10 Second went by. 20. 30. Then she started shaking my limp cat, and talking through gritted teeth at him, saying “you’re scaring your Mommy, kitty. Wake up….” and looking slightly concerned. She then shoved him in his cat carrier so hard that his head hit the back of the box and handed him to a vet tech to “prepare him to go home” – all the while chastising Jason and I for rescuing a dog that doesn’t really get along with the cats. It was pretty much my worst nightmare, but it didn’t even end here!

Eventually, he DID wake up, but he threw up a bunch of times, he couldn’t walk, he tried to jump on the couch but fell … it was a mess. I called the cat vet’s office and asked if there was anything I could give him to stop the vomiting, and they said I had to bring him back in… imagine my surprise when he acted like a psychopath during the return visit – can you blame him? Anyway, after all that, the vet didn’t even make time to see him, and another vet, after attempting to give him a shot for his nausea, settled on giving him OVER THE COUNTER pepcid. Yes, exactly what I asked for over the phone. I hate these people, and will not be going back.

Thankfully, after a day of disorientation, lethargy and nausea, Fionn is on the mend, and will soon return to terrorizing J, his brother, and his new favorite thing to torment: Otto.