Feline Frets

My cats have no idea what they’re in for tomorrow.

They’ll know as soon as the cat carrier is set in the foyer, though. Yes, it’s time for another traumatic trip to the V-E-T. Never mind the fact that the vet’s office is less than five minutes away. First the required but ineffective hiding will commence. Then, pathetic yowling will prevail when they are forced by their dear Daddy into their roomy pet carrier, destined to be stuck with needles.

Poor kitties.

I admit I’ve been a lousy pet parent these last few years: I only remember to update their shots if we’re about to move. Once in a while, if Violet is in whirling dervish mode, I even neglect to feed them again in the afternoon. I was hours late today when Turbo hopped up on the computer chair and meowed directly in my ear. And, being the freaking genius that I am, I still couldn’t figure out what was bothering her. Another hour later, I finally looked at their empty dishes, and apologized profusely to my furry friends. As if my Rubenesque beauties are under-fed or something…

There are a number of other reasons I feel guilty about Nermal and Turbo. A few years ago, I developed an allergy to cats. Naturally, this makes living in this small, carpeted house an interesting and phlegm-filled experience. I’m not able to pet them or brush them as often as I’d like, because my nose runs, my eyes water, and my hands start to itch. And naturally, I feel bad when I cannot adequately defend them from the affection and curiosity of my child. “Don’t do that to kitty!” is an oft-used phrase in the house as of late, as my daughter pulls, pinches, and points out body parts (“kitty eye,” “kitty ear,” etc.).

Of course, my biggest source of guilt is that these poor creatures, who do not travel well, are going to be forced on a two-to-three day venture to Idaho soon. There, they will be forced to live with the dreaded D-O-G and another, unfamiliar, feline.

I’m not sure they will ever forgive me.