or why I hate trips to the vet . . .

I have to type the word 'vet' . . . softly. If I type normally, it is something akin to a telegraph for cats. Dot. Dot. Dash. Scoot! And if I were to even think about saying it out loud, there would be a cloud of dust and a mighty Hi Ho Silver away, whilst three cats scamper off in three different directions. Today Snoop was due for his yearly checkup . . . the twins appointment the following day.

Snoop is psychic. Really. He smells 'vet' like some pungent hideous green gas permeating the house. He started twitching an hour before I intended to hide a lovely little acepromazine in his chicken flavored Pill Pocket. He dove under my bed and that was that. Not to be daunted I called the vet to ask if I could bring the twins in today and let Snoop take their appointment tomorrow. They were agreeable.

First I picked up Bear and shoved him in cage 1. As a side note, whenever Bear is caged, he grows 15 more legs . . . each trying to make its own escape. Finally, with the help of the 9TS, we got all 19 legs, one body, one tail and one head tucked away. Our first mistake was thinking that Bear and Ninja would be calmer if they shared a crate. Not our best idea. Ninja escaped and ran back upstairs. And, when I turned my back, somehow Bear managed to push his way out too. Back to square one. After several more attempts, Bear was mournfully bleating from cage 1 and Ninja echoing back from cage 2. The 9TS was sweating and we were both covered in a thick layer of fur.

They did reasonably well at the vet, with Bear settling down on the office scales . . . all 18.8 pounds of his big self and Ninja hiding her head in a corner and refusing to budge . . . ostrich style. Silly beastie. They were both dubbed healthy, if plump, and told to return again next year. Two down one to go.