Howie the Cat

The she-servant put me in the car this morning, and for a brief time I was overjoyed. I love car rides! I love to travel at speeds unmatched by lesser cats. I peer down from the many windows of her car, looking for inferior cats in backyards, ready to snub them.

Often, the she-servant merely brings me along when going to Dairy Queen. (She is very fat, as I have mentioned in previous posts.) But this time, she was going a different route. I didn’t care, that’s fine. I like to find lesser cats in new areas.

We turned into a drab looking area – not a place I’ve seen the she-servant go for food before. She must be desperate, I thought. Someone please feed this woman.

I quickly realized the truth. It was something much worse.

She had taken me to the vet.

I hate the vet and am always on my worst behavior when in his office. I’ve trained the vet to fear me. Trust me, these claws know what it’s like to shred some veterinarian skin. Feels good. I like it. More than you probably would.

She told the man she thought I seemed to be having trouble hearing. The she-servant signed some papers and the next thing I knew, I had two people to kill: the she-servant, and the vet.

The vet invaded my privacy in several ways too terrible to mention in mixed company. In the end, he declared I was suffering from an ear infection. (This is false.) He dumped medicine into my “infected” ear and sent us home with two bottles of horrible stuff. He asked to see me again in two weeks.

I will never be back. I will bury the rest of this medicine in my litter box and then I’ll deliver a painful education to the she-servant on where to NEVER take me again. She’s got some very clear boundaries to learn.

“Howie, come here!” the she-servant said. “I want to pet you. You are so handsome… aww, look at you! Come here, Howie!”

No. I will not come.

“Howie! Honey, come sit with momma!” she pleaded again.

No. And you are definitely not my “momma”, you disgusting heap.

“Lou-Lou Belle, Lou-Lou Belle! Come here, Lou-Lou Belle!” she said.

I HATE it when she calls me Lou-Lou Belle. Look at me. I am a fierce male cat. I am not anybody’s Lou-Lou Belle. What an insult! Of course I won’t reward her misbehavior by sitting with her. Besides, you wouldn’t know it by looking at it, but this paper bag I’m lounging on is very comfortable.

I stretched.

“Baby, I know you can hear me,” she said. “Please come sit with me. I want to pet you, honey.”

Definitely not. I turned my head to the side and looked toward the kitchen, pretending I cannot hear.

Finally, she went back to sipping her morning coffee. Silence fell across my kingdom.

I know the peace won’t last long. What Cat? is likely to walk by, which will cause me to chase her. (That is her fault.) The she-servant will pick me up then. She will hold me too tight and tell me she loves me, before smearing her greasy hands all over my face and forehead.

I am forced to remain here as long as I can, enjoying my wealth and general well-being.