So I took Harley to the vet Friday. Because, remember, that whole Pooping on the Floor chapter of her life?
I can laugh about all of this now because she's fine. But at the time? I was mildly distraught and completely convinced she had a tumor in her pooper, and if it wasn't for my inability to pay for a vet visit four months ago, it wouldn't have spread to her vital organs, facing me with the need to put her to sleep as I cradled her in my arms.
Obviously none of that happened (phew!), so I can laugh about it now. And there was no tumor. Just very full anal glands, which is sort of gross. But they were expelled, that's the word the veterinarian used, and now she's feeling much better, in her pooper, anyway.
However, getting Harley to the vet for anal gland expulsion was an experience in itself.
The cat is pretty perceptive. Especially when I begin chasing her through the apartment with a towel, fully prepared to wrap her in it and take her to the car. I've given up on using the pet taxi because that thing may as well be a burning orb straight from the pits of Hell. She takes one look at it, and she doesn't come out from under the refrigerator for three-and-a-half weeks.
OK, so she can't really fit under the refrigerator, but she is one who will try. The last time I tried to shove her in the pet taxi, I simultaneously lost an eye and contracted rabies from a 9-pound cat with no front claws and an up-to-date rabies vaccination.
But as soon as she saw me coming at her with an open towel, she knew what was coming. Eventually I wrangled her into the car, with the help of The Fiance, and she sat, mortified, in the passenger seat.
If her cries could be translated into the English language, I feel they would reveal the following:
"I hope you die."
"Don't you love me anymore?"
"I'll pee. I'll do it."
And that is when I wished I would've spoken fluent Cat. Because that's what she did. She crawled into my lap, shaking like the little waif she is, and peed her pants. She peed her pants. Not really her pants, so much as she peed on my pants, but she peed, nonetheless. And then she crawled back over to her side of the car.
Son of a ...
And then I wanted to (beat the shit out of her) cuddle with her, because it was so precious. She was so scared she peed. My poor little Harlequin. Little did she know she'd soon have fingers up her pooper, expelling her swollen anal glands.
Ah, to be a cat.
So, moral of the story is, my car smells like cat pee. Well, not so much anymore, after dumping an entire 20-some-ounce bottle of enzymatic cleaner on my car seat in an attempt to rid it of the odor. And also Harley is precious, but I already knew that.
And now you know. You're welcome. Carry on.