That time of year...

Every July I have to do one of my least-favorite tasks: take the boys to the vet for their annual check-up and shots. In the past, this wasn't a task that bothered me. But that was before I got Wesley. Those of you who know Wesley might be shocked to hear this, but he is absolutely horrible at the vet. He's so bad that they've made a note of it in his file. Hilariously, they call him "vocal," which is a pretty great euphemism for the snarling, hissing, and growling he does from just about every second he's in there. (It's not as bad as one of my sister Erin's cats, who got the dreaded designation "Biter" in his file.)

It's so strange because Wesley is, in his home environment, absolutely the sweetest, most loving, friendly cat you'll ever meet. He's downright dog-like in his demeanor. He even seems to like dogs who visit. All of that goes out the window at the vet, though. I always try to assure the staff that "his bark is worse than his bite," and I do believe that's true--he's never actually bitten or scratched anyone or even tried to, but you can tell they aren't taking my word for it. Heck, I wouldn't if I were in their shoes.

So every year, I stand there, embarrassed and apologetic for bringing in this nasty beast. It's not fun, despite their reassurance that they deal with much worse.

And how about Bing? How does he handle it? Well, compared to Wes, he's an angel. In fact, if he does any growling or hissing, I think it's just because Wes gets him so scared. Today, poor Bing just sat on the exam table waiting, but I could feel him shaking in fear. The doctor even said, while listening to his heart beat, "You may be quiet, but your heart is racing."

Thankfully, the vet visits are always pretty short--in and out in about 40 minutes or less--because it's not an awful time for me. I know they are terrified and feel lost and uncertain and there's nothing I can do to really reassure them. Even when they cower against me for comfort or protection, that only makes me feel worse. Last year, Wes took a flying leap from the exam table, across the room, and onto my shoulder. It was impressive and sweet, but majorly guilt-inducing.

As soon as we get home, though, they snap right back to normal. It's actually quite sweet: as soon as I put the evil boxes (the cat carriers) away, the boys walk around like they are so freakin' happy and grateful to be home. You can practically hear them saying, "Yeah! My house! We're back! I love it here!"

The wonderful thing about certain animals, especially those not gifted with a whole lot of intelligence (like my dear Wesley) is that they seem to very quickly forget just who it was that brought them to the vet. He runs to me for comfort and protection and as soon as we get home, he's all over me with a story to tell. My loose translation: "You wouldn't believe what I've just been through! But I am so happy to be home with you, oh person I love so very much!"

If this is what it's like to take a little kid to the doctor, my friends who are parents have even more of my undying respect!


Bing, post-vet visit, looking out an upstairs window.


Wes, in my lap, post-vet visit.