You could see it written across their frantic feline faces. “Why are you doing this to us?” They were sitting side by side in front of the closed pantry door, watching me, intently scrutinizing my face. Cats do not usually stare you in the eye, but urgency and desperation required the effort. Then they looked at each other. “No food or water since last night and no sign that she is going to open the pantry door this morning. Has she gone berserk, do you think?” was the unspoken question that passed between them.
Considering the uncertainty of the situation, Hangar opted for avoidance and ran to hide under the dining room table, presumably to stay until my moment of madness had passed. Trouble, however, with stubborn resolve, always confrontational in the face of adversity, turned to face her present adversary, the closed pantry door.
First, Trouble tried to slip her paw under the door to retrieve a stray nugget of Meow Mix that she could see just beyond her reach—so close. Rolling onto her back for a better angle of assault, she tried a sweeping gesture, still to no avail. Desperate determination replaced finesse as she threw both paws over her head, as though she could backstroke under the door. Encouraged, Hangar crept out from under the table to observe. Besides, she knew that if anyone could regain control of the food and water, Trouble was the cat to do it.
Meanwhile, I had set the pet carrier down on the dining room floor. I opened its door and smoothed out the old throw rug inside. “OK, which of you will be first?” I asked, putting my coat on. Attention now diverted from the food and water behind the pantry door, the cats ran to see if I had finally come to my senses. But, when they saw the carrier, they again looked at me as a total stranger.
“Now what is she up to?” they seemed to say as they began to warily circle the device that would transport them to who knows where. Noses twitching and sniffing for lingering information, they searched for clues that would lead them to the answer. A vague recollection taking form, Trouble’s ears folded flat against her head and her tail bushed out like a bottle brush—THE VET! Hangar ran back under the dining room table. Not surprisingly, Trouble ran into the carrier; I closed its door. She growled at me as though to say, “Let’s just get this whole thing over with, whatever it is, wherever it is, whatever it takes!”
It is a short trip to the veterinarian’s office, and I left Trouble growling and hissing her disgust to the veterinary assistant. I then took the carrier back home to get the even more reluctant Hangar.
Back home, I crawled under the dining room table, maneuvering around the legs of the chairs to chase down the remaining, elusive Hangar, who managed to stay just out of my grasp. Finally, we emerged from under the table. Disheveled, yet triumphant, I clutched the terrified kitty under my arm. Back to the vet I went with Hangar whimpering pitifully from inside the carrier prison, protesting her fate.
Hangar isn’t easy to pull out of the carrier; she often hangs onto the sides, clinging to the now safest haven from the potential terrors outside. Sometimes I have to invert the carrier so she slides out; even then she tries to scramble back up to safety. Eventually, she curls up in a fetal position and tries to hide her head under my arm. This time, I just hand the carrier to the assistant and leave the cats to their fate—their yearly examinations, vaccinations, and teeth cleaning.
I wish that I could explain to them, to dispel their fears. It is, after all, for their good. But why do I feel so guilty? I think it is the look of betrayal on their trusting little faces. I remember the same look on my boys’ faces when they were babies, as I held them still to get their vaccinations and when other painful medical procedures were required. I know that I am making too much of this, but how can an act of love so closely resemble betrayal and evoke pain and fear?
The cats had to stay the day, so when my husband and I did pick them up, they saw the carrier as a friendly conveyance, and were eager to enter its safe confinement. Once home, they ran for their now open pantry door to their bowls of fresh food and water, purring wildly that life is good.
I know that today was just a routine day for the veterinarian’s office, but it was a day of trauma and drama for our household. I guess that it was a day that represents the dichotomy of life, or was it just a paradigm shift?