The Cats from Hell
A loyal client was part of a feral cat spay/neuter and release program, and with that noble work meant, every year, starting in June, the vet clinic was inundated with gnarly felines of all ages.
The adults were assholes, and the kittens were fearful for the first two days before they realized humans equaled yummy Friskies beef and chicken style. Then we were the best things, their parents sure as shit aggravated by their kids’ betrayal.
Being the coffee junkies we all were, the Coffee Clutchers was first to be christened. At one point, there were so many kittens we took to naming them by subject. Cappuccino, Latte, Creamer, Mudslide, and Black Coffee; yes, terrible names. I’m glad all the owners were quick to rename them.
Then came the Halloween group, the Candy group, and the Food group. Each litter had five plus kittens in it. It was ridiculous. We’d no sooner get rid of one group for this guy to bring in a new litter.
Then came the parents.
It was entertainment to sit and analyze the markings of potential Moms and Dads to speculate as to who birthed who. One Tom, whom we named Panda, was a nasty SOB. We are positive he fathered half the groups as he had several sons and daughters who were spitting images of him.
A beautiful cat, it was almost a shame to knock his lights out in the surgery room and make him “a new man.” He never warmed up to us, not that we expected it.
The hero of this story, though, goes to a young female, presumably one of the mothers. Some asshole named her Sweetie, a very unbecoming name since she was more like the goddamn Antichrist.
A shot of Kitty Magic, Dexmedetomidine, Ketamine, and Butorphanol blended into an excellent anesthetic; Sweetie was out. Her baby-making organs were no more, and then a reversal to wake her up.
If the technicians thought Sweetie would climb out of her grogginess slowly, like every other patient, they were very naïve. One moment the thing was comatose. The next Sweetie used the operating table like a springboard, launching herself like she was going for the Gold in the Olympics. She didn’t care about the T-port hanging out of her Cephalic vein or the stitches holding her insides together.
Using the claws God gave her, she latched onto some decoration the veterinarian thought would be a fabulous addition. That came down in a crash, but Sweetie was already gone, onto the next thing, a cabinet.
At first, the technicians panicked.
Oh my god! Get this cat before she rips herself open.
But Sweetie had other plans.
Fuck you, humans.
*Terri and *Ashley said screw it. Sweetie is feral… if she causes severe damage, oh well.
A blanket finally caught Catwoman as she attempted to fling herself to the opposite side of the room.
Wednesday, the start of my week, I came into work to many disgruntled people. Several of my colleagues were crammed into a tiny room serving as our pharmacy. I wish people learned from the Flying Cat situation, but they didn’t.
Sweetie had escaped again, making a beeline for Room 3, bouncing off the closed door, and shooting into the organized pharmacy. Floor-to-ceiling shelves reaching thirteen feet were her mountain to climb and climb she did.
Cardiac, urinary, poop medications, light sedatives, light, and potent analgesic, you name it, Sweetie took it out on her mad dash to the ceiling.
Slamming the door shut to trap her, a sacrificial lamb was sent in with welding gloves and a towel to catch the bitch.
With a resounding crash, I was told, bouncing pill bottles again all over the tiled floor, Sweetie was caught and shoved into a cage, with a warning nobody touches her, except veterinarians.
That was fine with us.
Needless to say, that client was called for a special pickup that same day.
Two days later, Sweetie was gone.
**Sorry, you’ll have to use your imagination as to what these cats looked like. I purposely did not get a picture of them. No need to remember any of them.
