My Dog Is Fat , My Cat Threw Up, and the Cow Jumped over the Moon. . .

So after three canceled appointments, I finally took my pets to the much-dreaded vet yesterday.

Now last year, in a corporal act of mercy, Veggie took the cat to the vet for me.  But, despite my wise counsel Not to let the vet know that she's no longer an indoor cat because they'll be wanting to give her all sorts of extra tests and shots, Veggie found herself spilling the beans and returned home with a $300 vet bill and a rabies certificate that was good for only one year.

And so this year, subscribing to the theory that You should never send a mere child to do a Mom-on-Spin's work (combined with the fact that Veggie is currently out of the country) it quickly became evident that it was my turn to wrestle with that cat, stuff that little furball into the dog carrier against her will (yes, I said dog. . . .do you have a problem with that?) zipper her whiskers into the cramped designer-fru-fru-doggie space, and listen to her sad lament the whole way to the vet's.

But that's okay, because the dog was panting like . . . Hey!  She hasn't let my shedding body in this car in like forever!  We must be going some place really cool. .  .  

It was also my turn to get the the immunization sales pitch.

And to feel like a crazy cold-hearted animal-hater when I opted out.


Opted out of the feline leukemia test and vaccine, despite being warned of the dire consequences in doing so. . .  opted out of the one-year rabies shot and electing one with three-year effectiveness - even though it required me to sign a disclaimer . . . .  foregoing the kennel cough immunization when I have never once boarded my dog in her four years of human existence which translates to practically FOREVER in doggie years . . . and requesting a six-month supply of the heartworm tablets because I only remember to administer them about every-other-month anyway. . .  ( I did - however - offer to pay for extra distemper shots if they could be made available to teenage daughters and/or grumpy husbands. . . for some reason they wouldn't let me.  . . . )


And then, despite my best efforts, I was handed a $383 bill on my way out.

And the cat gladly hopped back into the very carrier that she had so vehemently despised just a half-hour earlier.

And the dog had a strange fixation with licking her butt.

And the cat threw up all over my living room couch the minute we got home.

And then I think - but I'm not certain - I saw the dish run away with the spoon. . . 

Oh.  . . and who knew that labs should have waistlines?  Come to think of it, so should middle-aged-women, but that doesn't mean I have one, now does it?