As I write this, it’s the evening before Thanksgiving Day in the USA, and I am exceedingly thankful. I am thankful the first vet visit for the Dread Kitty Westley and Midnight found nothing serious, and Her Royal Highness Princess Buttercup’s annual checkup went well. I am even more thankful the whole thing is over for a year, because getting two not-entirely-trustful kittens and one older cat who did not like the shenanigans into cat carriers was not something I want to repeat any time soon.
Midnight was the only one with any issues: he had a nasty wax buildup in his ears that bid fair to run the vet out of cotton-tips, and a fungal infection in said ears which probably caused the wax buildup. Rather than inflict the trauma of multiple days of medication on him, he got treatment at the vet that should last 30 days.
So now we have three traumatized cats who may or may not decide to put aside their getting-to-know-you issues over shared trauma, and two traumatized humans who had to try to catch the little sods and get them into the carriers in the first place.
It was not an easy exercise. All plans fall at the first engagement with the enemy, as it were.
First problem: HRH Buttercup decided to follow me upstairs when I went up to find where the boys had hidden themselves – they like to find themselves hidden snuggle-spots and curl up there to sleep – so she saw me snag the Dread Kitty Westley and take him downstairs.
He went into the carrier easily enough, but when we… encouraged Midnight into the smaller carrier, HRH Buttercup was there watching… And figuring that something Bad was being done unto Kittehs. She did Not Approve.
Problem two: Westley and Midnight made a run for freedom when I was transferring Midnight into the carrier with his brother. We’ve only got the two, so we figured the best option was to put the boys in one and HRH in the other. Except Midnight is still pretty skittish and doesn’t like being picked up and held, so we had to use a carrier as a transfer vehicle.
Cue the Keystone Cops routine to get the pair of them trapped and back into the carrier, by which time they were both traumatized.
Problem three: HRH Buttercup Did Not Want. At 17 pounds, getting her to do something she doesn’t want to do is… challenging. Eventually we got her into the carrier by means of cutting off escape routes. She was hiding under the bed, so this involved a broom and creatively-placed body parts to herd her into the carrier.
By contrast, the actual vet visit was rather anticlimactic, although poor Midnight was still so traumatized he got to escape that greatest of kitteh indignities – having his temperature taken. At least at the vet all three wanted to stay in the relative safety of the carriers, so there were no wild bids for freedom.
May they all need no vet attention until this time next year.
Mad Genius Club 
this post needs pictures.
It is – alas – rather challenging to get the little imps to hold still enough for pictures at the moment.
I’m very glad that Athena T. Cat, once captured, goes full passive-protester and plays limp through whatever follows, be it a bath or a vet visit.
I’m also glad for the writers and commenters at MGC, who manage to keep things civil, mostly fun, and helpful.
Kili-cat goes passive-protestor as long as I am holding her, or am there and she can touch me.
Unfortunately, as many a vet tech has discovered, if you take her away to give her shots out of line of sight? First the very vocal protest starts, and rapidly shifts from “I am NOT happy!” to “I am become Death, destroyer of worlds! IA! IA FTHAGN!” And all the hard points come out, with a will and a way.
The last time I left her at the vet’s for observation, it was supposed to be 8 hours minimum, likely 24. Less than two and a half hours elapsed before I got a phone call. “Look, we just gave her a couple shots that’ll cover whatever she’s likely to have. Come get your hellion!” (And in the background, I could hear her quite clearly carrying forth about “When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains…”)
This is why my cats are made into milk addicts at an early age: all I need do is bang the dish and they all come running for cat crack, and mind you these are barn cats, some not very civilized. Beaver (the smartest one) will even run INTO the carrier if he believes there’s milk involved…
Please tell me I wasn’t the only one humming “Yakkety Sax” to myself whilst reading that.
Considering that I had Yakety Sax running through my mind while I wrote it, I rather suspect you’re not alone.
I feel your pain. A little. Maximum Maxwell has to go get x-rays tomorrow. He’s been barfing up his food so there’s some concern a “foreign object” might be involved. Such as a fence post, tree limb or possibly a small car.
How the hell do these dogs suffer digestive problems? They’re supposed to be able to eat a dead crow off the side of the road without ill effects. I’ve seen him do it before, maggots and all, never barfed or had bowel issues. Give him the amazingly expensive vet-approved bespoke dog food, he’s barfing one day and gets the runs the next.
At least he’s not a cat. Ball of fur-covered muscle armed with razor blades.
Our lab-aussie cross always has had a loose definition of food, with an uncanny ability to find small, expired critters. Her buddy, the border collie decided that if it was good for her older sister, it was fine for her. OTOH, the pathogen content of the findings has been impressive.
After several expensive vet trips (and one an overnight stay in doggie ICU), we figured that they were going to be indoor dogs, with only the necessary trips to the outside kennel. That way I could control access to any extracurricular “food” for the lab-aussie. Fortunately, the other isn’t quite so enthusiastic about such.
One cat per cat carrier is a good rule to live by. You do not have enough arms to add a cat to a carrier that has another cat, determined to escape, already in it.
Second rule, never trust a zippered carrier that doesn’t have physical locks (not the fold the pull down and hope lock) as all too often the furball will see a glimmer of light from the zipper and claw it open.
Third rule, nobody opens a door, house, car or vet’s until all furry bodies are accounted for.
I wish I had read these somewhere instead of learning them the hard way.
Poor Merlin. He’s curious, like most cats, but everything he finds terrifies him. Last vet visit, he was determined not to be captured, but I had trapped him in my bedroom. He dove under the bed. I grabbed the bed and pulled it across the floor to expose him. After running up the wall (that was impressive – he made it above the light switch before gravity reengaged), I captured him; amazingly without claw marks. A year later, he’s still leery about hiding under that bed. He hasn’t figured out that they are all movable.