I’m likin’ it! Mucho.

If you’re about to ask me if that’s me, then man you need a History lesson.

That’s Pappy. Gregory Boyington. The real one. 28 Tallies in the Pacific in WWII. That’s one bad Blacksheep.

We have a cat. It’s a very pretty long haired calico named Riley. She can be prissy, after all she IS a cat. She can also be very difficult when she pleases.

Now, no animal likes the trips to the vet, and hell as a person who doesn’t like trips to the doctor I can relate on a lot of levels. They poke you, prod you, and generally tell you everything you are doing is wrong and to stop it. With a cat they get the added indignity of being crammed into a little plastic cage like a criminal, carted off to a moving vehicle that is massive compared to them - even when they can only steal glimpses of it through the tiny slots in the side of their cage.

As if the trauma of being betrayed by an owner who would stuff you into one of those tiny boxes and drag you outside and place you into a rumbling moving hunk of metal for nearly twenty minutes wasn’t bad enough, the poor thing then gets the poking prodding and abuse we all suffer at the doctor. I can understand her being a bit prissy about it all.

However, like people, sometimes something serious is wrong and you simply can’t avoid the pain you know will come. Riley had a growth on her back the needed to be removed, before it got any larger. It had steadily grown from about the size of my thumb to roughly half a baseball. It was time to go and the Doc said so. This was the2nd Doctor, first was pretty much looking to get a condo in Florida out of the deal so we got a second opinion. Both agreed it had to go, but the second doctor just needed a new bag for his clubs, so he got the honor of treating our lovely little ball of fur. Poor guy.

Riley doesn’t tolerate people much. Even visitors to our home are hissed at, avoided if possible, and when it’s not possible, looked at with such piercing hate that I’m surprised the people don’t just burst into flames on the spot. She has been rejected by groomers as too dangerous to deal with, even our last vet sent her records over with “caution” on the top of every page. Yes, we have the spawn of kitty-Satan living among us.

The new Doc didn’t think Riley was so bad. At least until she woke up after surgery. She hissed, growled, spit, and pretty much made it clear she was in no mood to be trifled with. She also made it clear that any attempt to come near her would be met with death. One assistant came within about a foot of her cage while tending to another animal. You could clearly hear Riley all the way out front in the waiting room. The poor woman at the counter asked if the evil sounds were from her cat. “No’, I assured her,” That would be Riley.”. The assistant came out and informed her that the cries of the damned had, in fact, been my little ball of fluff and not hers.

With the warnings plastered all over her charts, and this incident to go by, the doctor needed to remove a drain tube yesterday. It had been about 5 days since surgery and the tube just “Needed to be taken out. No big deal. Shouldn’t take 5 minutes.”

Obviously he has a short term memory problem.

We took Riley back to her favorite vacation resort, The Vet, and the cheerful woman in blue took her with a smile and assured us it would just be a moment.(Sure!)

Nearly 20 minutes passed as we waited. I was pretty sure Riley had killed them all. Or maybe one had escaped, bloodied and broken, and was calling the SWAT team to get the cat under control. In the meantime, the owner of a Husky Puppy, all 40 pounds of her or so, was laughing about her dog’s interest in attacking the 140 pound German Sheppard sitting next to her (the Sheppard was unimpressed). The owner suggested that maybe her dog should try picking on something smaller, like a cat. I chuckled.

The woman in blue returned with the carrier. I knew not because she came up to me, but because I suddenly heard the screams of hell coming closer. Yes, Riley was coming out. Spitting, hissing and with a mouth full of blood Riley was returned to us. I asked Immediately if the blood was Riley’s or the Doctor’s and the woman admitted she really had no idea. Probaly both. It had taken 3 Vet techs, and the Doctor to get the tube out. The tech held Riley, while she thrashed, spit, bit, and when that didn’t’ work, relived herself, all over everyone.

The cheerful, now rattled, woman in blue also added that they had placed a leash on Riley, which we were free to keep since no one in the office was willing to risk taking it off her.

She also let us know that when it came time for Riley’s stitches to be removed, they would need to have her for the day because they were putting her under. One tube took 20 minutes and 4 people. I shudder to think what a dozen or so stitches would require. Putting her out sounds sane and sensible to me.

As the screaming, spitting spawn of hell continued to make her displeasure known (all other sounds - human and animal- had stopped) I turned casually to the owner of the Feisty Husky looking for a kitty to pick on. I offered up our little 15 pound bundle of joy as a possible challenger to her 40 pound husky. She passed.

For those curious, the moment we got home Riley stepped out of her carrier, let me take the leash off, and immediately wandered off to relax in her usual spot as if nothing much had happened.