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.
4 comments:
Both pictures are great, but the second one had me laughing out loud!
Thanks, Sally.
I wish I had a recording of the racket he was making. Boy, was he mad.
Yes, the second picture is very clever! Scary vet!
Thank you, stray g.
Yep. Weird vet.
I'll admit Freddy was nutso, but you'd think a vet would know how to handle him better.
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