Flashes of Panic

When we used to take Iz to the vet in Northampton, he would make noises we’d never hear at any other time. He’ll yowl and howl any other time, but only on the way to the vet (and in the waiting room, and until we were back in the car,) did he ever growl.

Today was his first visit to the vet out here, and for the most part he was pretty good about it. The yappy dogs in the waiting room bothered him (we went to a cat-only vet in Northampton,) but they didn’t start him growling. It wasn’t until I lugged him into the examination room proper that the noises started. “Rrrrrrrr,” he said pointedly, in a register at least two octaves below his normal speaking voice. “Rrrrrrrr.”

What was it? The smell of the room? There were cat posters on the walls, a little Mac Mini on the counter showing his database entry, and the standard metal table; maybe it’s the table that set him off.

I put my face down to the carrier and talked to him, and he seemed to stop growling until it was time to dump him out of the carrier and let the vet examine him. She started off well by complimenting his appearance, but he got no points for good behavior—she had to ask “Daddy” to hold him so he couldn’t bite her. (This, too, with a compliment—“What good teeth he has!”)

They have three-year rabies shots now, but given Iz’s taste for bats, I opted to continue the annual schedule. We’re supposed to be on the lookout for unusual behavior, but Iz is pretty bulletproof as far as vets are concerned; even back when he had his spark plugs out and they told us he might be lethargic, he was tearing around the apartment as though nothing had happened.

I’m not sure I’ve been forgiven for this trip yet. We’ll see tomorrow morning when the breakfast campaign starts.

Now Playing: The Precience Of Dawn from Reconstruction Site by The Weakerthans