In which faithful readers encourage me to be a terrible cat mom

The home vet came today, to check on Francis.

I have to have a vet come to the house to see Francis, because he is insane, and you simply cannot work on him at a regular vet's office. He gets all puffy, and growly, and fangy, and then he JUMPS at your throat in the most alarming manner and you just want to throw him out onto Ventura Boulevard on the drive home.

I use this example because that is pretty much the last place I lived when I took Fran to the regular vet, was Los Angeles in the Valley, which tells you it was not even the year 2000 yet. It was last century. That last time, they screamed at me, "LEAVE THE ROOM!" as he was headed for my jugular like I was in a Twilight movie, and I stood in the lobby and shook while I heard crashing and shouting and a cat speaking in tongues.

After that they told me I could never bring him there again.

Now a vet comes over in this enormous van filled with instruments, including these hawk gloves that she makes me put on so I can stroke my murdersome beast while she shoots a tranquilizer into his evil behind part.

Seriously, you should see these gloves. They go up to my shoulders, and they are 40 inches thick. I could stand outside and call vultures over and they could talon me all they wanted and I'd feel nothing. Except the part where they'd try to idly pick out my eyeballs.

The vet came to make sure he's getting better, as he has irritable bowel syndrome, which is a surprise because he is so unirritable about everything else. She will have his bloodwork back tomorrow, but in the meantime I'm afraid I took advantage of the fact that he is passed out on my bathroom floor.

Even worse? Faithful Reader Paula H&B sent me PROPS for just this occasion. Where she found these ridiculous items, I will never know. And yes, I do understand that Francis will idly peck at my eyeballs like a vulture someday.

And I will deserve it.

Because not only is he passed out, this time he's passed out with his tongue hanging. Which somehow makes it even meaner that I put Ben Franklin spectacles on him.

But this fedora restored his dignity, no?

What if I gave him Harpo Marx hair? Laugh and the world laughs with you, Fran.

"leeve fran alone, bad mom. having seeesta."

I'm sorry, Francis. It's terrible of me to take advantage of your passed-out self. You can't help it you're a tad…high-strung and it costs me an extra HUNDRED BUCKS whenever you get sick. But mom's not resentful. She won't take it out on you any more.

…Uncle Charlie. (heeeeeeeeeeee)


103 thoughts on “In which faithful readers encourage me to be a terrible cat mom

  1. Maybe Fran’s iron poor blood is due to fibroids. Sympathy fibroids.


  2. I just paid an obscene amount of money to be able to access the Internet via satellite from a cruise ship, and Fran’s photos made it worth EVERY PENNY! You never disappoint, June!


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