Recently, my wife told me she needed my help taking the dog and one of our cats to the Vet. I told her I would be happy to check if the kids were available to go with her. Unfortunately for me, she had already asked the girls before she came to me, and they were busy. It seems she wanted me to go with her about as much as I wanted to go.
That is to say, not all that much.
Despite the fact that neither of us really wanted me to help with this project, I ended up spending a Wednesday morning wrangling unhappy animals instead of the marathon couch sitting event I had previously planned. That TV doesn’t just watch itself, you know.
My wife asked me to start by grabbing the cat and putting it in the carrying case. Knowing that the cat would run away the second it saw the carrier, I ended up waiting until she had curled up on the bed in the back bedroom before bringing the case in from the garage. I don’t know if she is psychic or if I’m just really unlucky, but the moment I walked into the house with the carrier, the cat wandered out into the kitchen and spotted me.
I tried to hide the carrying case behind my back, but it was way too late. The cat disappeared, leaving behind a cat-shaped cloud of hair floating in the kitchen.
I spent the next fifteen minutes looking in all her usual hiding spots before I located her under my bed. It took an additional five minutes before I could get enough of a handhold on her to drag her back out into the daylight.
Bleeding from numerous puncture wounds, I brought her back to the kitchen to stick her in the carrying case. Her head went into the case easily, but the rest of her suddenly melted into a pudding that was too wide to shove through the opening. It was like I was trying to push toothpaste back into its tube, only the toothpaste kept wriggling and trying to squirt back out.
When I finally got her in the case, it was time to gather up the dog. Getting the dog to go to the vet is a much easier process than corralling the cat. All I need to do is pick up the car keys and jingle them in my hand and the dog is already sitting in the backseat, drooling on the headrest, and wondering why it’s taking me so long to start the engine.
Which brings us to the next fiasco in this trip to the vet saga: starting the car.
After packing the animals into the car, my wife sat down behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition, and…
Nothing.
The battery was completely dead. I don’t know how the cat managed it, but she must have snuck out to the garage while I was searching for her and murdered the car battery. I can’t prove it was her, but the circumstantial evidence is very compelling.
We were forced to borrow my daughter’s car since we didn’t have time to get a new battery before the animals were due at the vet clinic. As my kid reluctantly handed over her car keys, she told me with a straight face, “Come straight home after you see the vet, I need the car tonight. And, don’t forget to put gas in the tank when you’re done using it.”
Before I could respond to those statements with the honest response they deserved, my wife reminded me that we were already late for our appointment. I grabbed the keys, made a mental note to myself to yell at the kid later, and headed out the door.
The vet visit went as I expected. We were advised that the animals are too fat, and we needed to feed them less or let them exercise more (Why is it always my fault that the animals have no self-control?) otherwise they were both perfectly healthy. We got a brief lecture about not waiting so long before we brought the animals in for checkups next time. Then, the cat got a shot and the dog got a treat, thereby guaranteeing that the next trip to the vet would be an exact repeat of the ridiculousness we had just gone through earlier that day.
When it was over, we stuffed the cat back in her suitcase, gave the vet enough money to make her next three house payments, and headed back home.
I thought when we got back home that the cat would tell me what she did to the battery in my wife’s car, but she must have still been angry about getting a shot because she wouldn’t talk to me. She just hissed when I let her out of the cat carrier and ran back under the bed.
It was about this time that my daughter demanded her keys back and asked if I had gassed up her car.
I tossed her the keys from my pocket and said, “Here. You’re taking your mom’s car, tonight. The jumper cables are in the garage and don’t forget to buy a new battery on the way home.”
Okay, I didn’t actually do that. I didn’t think of it fast enough.
But I really, really wish I had.
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