Monday, July 14, 2008
Freddy (Dip Rage)
With us he was gentle, but vets feared him. Freddy, our family cat when I was in my teens, had a reputation. He scratched. Hissed. Bit. We actually had to switch vets a few times because they couldn't handle him. He turned into a rabid death weasel.
Once my dad and I went to pick him up from a flea dip. Unearthly yowls came from backstage. Wow, I thought, he must treat wild animals too.
The vet motioned us to follow.
Wet and furious, Freddie scrambled in place on the steel countertop, held in place by a ripped net. Earls glued down, he snapped at anyone who got close. Dip Rage.
"The fleas are dead!" the vet kept saying. "The fleas are dead!" In other words, I did what you paid me for, now will you please get this maniac outta here!?
Freddy let my dad and I untangle him.
When we got home, Freddy retired to his hide out (covered litter box) and sulked.
Another vet we didn't go back to.