We sold our stroller. We just wanted to get one we can convert to a double someday (no, I'm not pregnant,) and one that is a jogger. As soon as it was sold, Skylar and I got ridiculously sentimental and teary eyed about it. Who knew we could be that nostalgic about an object we have only spent a year and a half with?
The cats. Yes. They knew. They knew because since about the time we got the stroller, they have been demoted. They were my babies before. Now, when looking for pictures of them for this post, I had to go back almost two years.
We spent the day together yesterday. I took them to get their shots, oh so sad. Spanky is a dream at the vet, friendly, docile, agreeable. She has lost 3 pounds since Harper became mobile, leaving her to be a very healthy 13 pounds of loving snuggles.
Trixie, on the other hand, is six pounds of hell, fire and damnation. I've seen large, strapped, grown men at the vet's cower away from her, as if she was Rosemary's baby. (We are talking about a cat that
kills bunnies.) Normally, once she has been taken out of her carrier, they bring out the 'angry cat protector' gloves. These are thick leather, or rubber, and come up to the elbow. They are no match for the cat. Next, either she is restrained in a pillow case, or taken to the back room where her screams can be heard for blocks. It is not pleasant.
Yesterday, was a different story.
Maria Manrigue, D.V.M, tamed the beast. She showed no fear, she did not pull out the gloves. Trixie hissed and spit and arched her back, and Dr. Manrigue did not flinch. She gave the cat her exam and shots, and escaped unharmed. The woman is obviously a saint. If you are looking for a vet, or need to perform an exorcism, I would highly recommend her.