Whenever I work from home, such as this week, Charlie considers my getting to work on time of the utmost importance... I start around 6:45am and he is sitting outside the closed office door at 6:40am. If I am not there at 6:43am, he will begun to alert me (and the neighborhood) that I am late.
PS: Charlie is not allowed in the office alone... ever... there are plants (non-toxic) to be eaten/ dug up, paint brushes he believes are chew toys, etc. etc.
To keep the peace, I open the office, tuck him into his office chair next to mine and flipped on the computer by 6:35am.
Happy Charlie:
I then go retrieve coffee and get Luna up for breakfast.
Eyeing his snoring whiskers around 8am I remembered he and I were going to the vet today....
GAAHHHHHHH.... resting my chin on my hand and morosely gulping overly strong and hot coffee, I considered the ways I might make this less of an embarrassing and stressful afternoon.
My negative energy wakes him up and he does what any sensible friend does when their friend is acting weird and staring at them.
He sits on me.
Ok, ok... this will not be too bad,
I'd already set his carrier out in the hall, lined it with a soft towel and taped a trash bag over it. I'd left the crate door open and a favorite treat in the back.
His appointment is at 4pm, which is perfect. His automatic feeder goes off at 4pm (Charlie does not believe day light savings should have any impact on meals so we bought an automatic feeder and never change the time). This is perfect because we will leave at 3:45pm and his tummy will be pretty much empty.
He is also going to a vet that is ten minutes from home. And last this appointment is just a check up! No shots!
It's going to be easy.
Or easier.
Or not so bad,.,
During lunch time, he decided to get up and come downstairs to commit an attempted murder by sitting right behind me while I made lunch. Or maybe he was just trying to get me to trip and then he could eat my lunch. Maybe he likes hanging out with me....AND he would like my lunch.
Either way, it was at this time, he noticed the crate in the hall.
Slowly he stood and sauntered over. He sniffed the air from a careful distance from the open door, his tail began to twitch, his ears slowly flatten... he does not enter for my paltry offering in the crate. He turns and looks at me and utters a slow low disgusted growl.
He knows I am going to betray him.
Toast.
Bugger the internet and the advise to leave the crate out! This is the third time I have done it and all it does it leave us in a fight for the rest of the day.
I go on to eat my lunch in lonely silence. He does not return to the office to attempt to get in on my lunch or to continue his afternoon nap or to interrupt my conference call. He stays downstairs, on the other bed on his lazy boy. He keeps his back to me and he does not purr if I pet him.
All right, fine. But At least his tummy will be empty, the drive is short and the visit a benign check up.
About thirty minutes before it is time to leave I eat three pieces of dark chocolate and drink an overly strong giant mug of black tea.
I put on comfortable shoes, add the to-go mess bag (paper towels, disinfectant, hand sanitizer) to the car, change my shirt into a more casual one, pull my hair up and and stuff it under a hat, take a deep breath and head in for battle.
He knows this routine. He is prepared and darts for the bedroom and the safe havens offered in them but I have closed all doors and with Luna's help, we corner him by his automatic food bowl.
Getting him into the carrier is easier than it should be...
BURNT TOAST! I left the treat in there earlier. He snarfs it down in record time.
Gahhhhhhhhhhhhh.............
There is nothing to be done, I tell myself and carefully lift the carrier by the bottom (using the handle jostles him all over the place) and put him in the back seat and secure it with a seat belt.
The blasted animal begins to howl a mournful and terrible song. His serenade is so loud that as I back the car out, a neighbor retrieving mail pauses to gap at me. Charlie makes this sound, only in the car mind you, that sounds like a small child drowning in a well of water. It is awful; deep, tragic, echoing and it fills the car with such bellowing that my whiten knuckles could crack the steering wheel.
Music, of any kind, will only make him louder. Rolling down the windows in today's balmy 15 degrees seems rational but I don't give him.
Staring at the clock, counting the minutes, I take each turn gently, each acceleration is a soft increase in speed. My right arm is twisted uncomfortably behind me so that my fingers are in the crate door and his face is smashed into them.
"You can do this Char bear! Only eight more minutes!"
"ArrrrghhhhwwwwwwaaaaaaYYYYYY" he replies.
Salvia suddenly coats my finger tips as snort from his snot results in a sneeze.
TOAST.
He is going to up chuck...
"Four more minutes little friend!"
He moans, shoving his nose into a fingernail accidentally, "AhHHHHHHMMMMMEEEEOOWW"
(Translation: "WHY???")
"Two minutes! Wait! Now we are in the parking lot!"
But it is too late.
At the last split second, he pulls his snotty little face away and belches his treat into the back of his carrier along with a surprising amount of fluid.
Parking, I quickly wipe my disgusting finger tips with a paper towel from the mess bag and apply sanitizer and haul him in his crate carefully out of the vehicle. (Prolonged exposure can him throw up again.)
Small piece of luck! We are presently the only patients in the office. The front person asks if she can help and I ask if she likes cats. "Of Course!" she answers, eyeing the moaning crate.
Sadly for her, this means I pop open the top and hand him off for a cuddle. He is happy to cuddle with her. She didn't put him in the torture machine.
He is pretty good about not getting his mess on himself, so although she is startled, she is not grossed out. I ball up the trash bag while she tells him he is handsome and he head butts her face as a thank you.
As soon as the door closes to our waiting room, I let him investigate while I answer the questions for the tech. He has forgiven me now that we 'in it together' in a foreign place, he sits next to me, rubbing his face on my leg and even reaches up to request I 'pick him up'.
Anyway... the tech leaves and in walks the vet.... Rudely the man roughs him up, takes his temperature, inspects his teeth and squeezes his little body all over.
Charles has lost... drum roll please: 6.5 pounds.
Over the last two years mind you, but this is amazing. Shoot, I have been trying to get off the last eight pounds for a year without success.
Char and I are advised he is in incredibly good shape for his age and his teeth actually look really good. Over all, he is a darn good looking healthy decade old (ish) cat (last part is my part but it's true.)
The vet leaves. Char jumps down. I reline the crate with the extra trash bag in my handbag and call him over. He sits down and heavily sighs.
"It's time to go home buddy."
He sighs again, I wait. Around the two minute mark of looking towards each other but not at each other he stands and stiffly walks over to me and into the crate.
The front desk is awash with dogs; a giant Dobie bellows hello, a pittie woofs, a huge boxer lungs for the crate cradled in my arms.
And I still have to pay....
A beseeching tortured cry erupts from the crate and I start to giggle.
PS: Charlie is not allowed in the office alone... ever... there are plants (non-toxic) to be eaten/ dug up, paint brushes he believes are chew toys, etc. etc.
To keep the peace, I open the office, tuck him into his office chair next to mine and flipped on the computer by 6:35am.
Happy Charlie:
Eyeing his snoring whiskers around 8am I remembered he and I were going to the vet today....
GAAHHHHHHH.... resting my chin on my hand and morosely gulping overly strong and hot coffee, I considered the ways I might make this less of an embarrassing and stressful afternoon.
My negative energy wakes him up and he does what any sensible friend does when their friend is acting weird and staring at them.
He sits on me.
I'd already set his carrier out in the hall, lined it with a soft towel and taped a trash bag over it. I'd left the crate door open and a favorite treat in the back.
His appointment is at 4pm, which is perfect. His automatic feeder goes off at 4pm (Charlie does not believe day light savings should have any impact on meals so we bought an automatic feeder and never change the time). This is perfect because we will leave at 3:45pm and his tummy will be pretty much empty.
He is also going to a vet that is ten minutes from home. And last this appointment is just a check up! No shots!
It's going to be easy.
Or easier.
Or not so bad,.,
During lunch time, he decided to get up and come downstairs to commit an attempted murder by sitting right behind me while I made lunch. Or maybe he was just trying to get me to trip and then he could eat my lunch. Maybe he likes hanging out with me....AND he would like my lunch.
Either way, it was at this time, he noticed the crate in the hall.
Slowly he stood and sauntered over. He sniffed the air from a careful distance from the open door, his tail began to twitch, his ears slowly flatten... he does not enter for my paltry offering in the crate. He turns and looks at me and utters a slow low disgusted growl.
He knows I am going to betray him.
Toast.
Bugger the internet and the advise to leave the crate out! This is the third time I have done it and all it does it leave us in a fight for the rest of the day.
I go on to eat my lunch in lonely silence. He does not return to the office to attempt to get in on my lunch or to continue his afternoon nap or to interrupt my conference call. He stays downstairs, on the other bed on his lazy boy. He keeps his back to me and he does not purr if I pet him.
All right, fine. But At least his tummy will be empty, the drive is short and the visit a benign check up.
About thirty minutes before it is time to leave I eat three pieces of dark chocolate and drink an overly strong giant mug of black tea.
I put on comfortable shoes, add the to-go mess bag (paper towels, disinfectant, hand sanitizer) to the car, change my shirt into a more casual one, pull my hair up and and stuff it under a hat, take a deep breath and head in for battle.
He knows this routine. He is prepared and darts for the bedroom and the safe havens offered in them but I have closed all doors and with Luna's help, we corner him by his automatic food bowl.
Getting him into the carrier is easier than it should be...
BURNT TOAST! I left the treat in there earlier. He snarfs it down in record time.
Gahhhhhhhhhhhhh.............
There is nothing to be done, I tell myself and carefully lift the carrier by the bottom (using the handle jostles him all over the place) and put him in the back seat and secure it with a seat belt.
The blasted animal begins to howl a mournful and terrible song. His serenade is so loud that as I back the car out, a neighbor retrieving mail pauses to gap at me. Charlie makes this sound, only in the car mind you, that sounds like a small child drowning in a well of water. It is awful; deep, tragic, echoing and it fills the car with such bellowing that my whiten knuckles could crack the steering wheel.
Music, of any kind, will only make him louder. Rolling down the windows in today's balmy 15 degrees seems rational but I don't give him.
Staring at the clock, counting the minutes, I take each turn gently, each acceleration is a soft increase in speed. My right arm is twisted uncomfortably behind me so that my fingers are in the crate door and his face is smashed into them.
"You can do this Char bear! Only eight more minutes!"
"ArrrrghhhhwwwwwwaaaaaaYYYYYY" he replies.
Salvia suddenly coats my finger tips as snort from his snot results in a sneeze.
TOAST.
He is going to up chuck...
"Four more minutes little friend!"
He moans, shoving his nose into a fingernail accidentally, "AhHHHHHHMMMMMEEEEOOWW"
(Translation: "WHY???")
"Two minutes! Wait! Now we are in the parking lot!"
But it is too late.
At the last split second, he pulls his snotty little face away and belches his treat into the back of his carrier along with a surprising amount of fluid.
Parking, I quickly wipe my disgusting finger tips with a paper towel from the mess bag and apply sanitizer and haul him in his crate carefully out of the vehicle. (Prolonged exposure can him throw up again.)
Small piece of luck! We are presently the only patients in the office. The front person asks if she can help and I ask if she likes cats. "Of Course!" she answers, eyeing the moaning crate.
Sadly for her, this means I pop open the top and hand him off for a cuddle. He is happy to cuddle with her. She didn't put him in the torture machine.
He is pretty good about not getting his mess on himself, so although she is startled, she is not grossed out. I ball up the trash bag while she tells him he is handsome and he head butts her face as a thank you.
As soon as the door closes to our waiting room, I let him investigate while I answer the questions for the tech. He has forgiven me now that we 'in it together' in a foreign place, he sits next to me, rubbing his face on my leg and even reaches up to request I 'pick him up'.
Anyway... the tech leaves and in walks the vet.... Rudely the man roughs him up, takes his temperature, inspects his teeth and squeezes his little body all over.
Charles has lost... drum roll please: 6.5 pounds.
Over the last two years mind you, but this is amazing. Shoot, I have been trying to get off the last eight pounds for a year without success.
Char and I are advised he is in incredibly good shape for his age and his teeth actually look really good. Over all, he is a darn good looking healthy decade old (ish) cat (last part is my part but it's true.)
The vet leaves. Char jumps down. I reline the crate with the extra trash bag in my handbag and call him over. He sits down and heavily sighs.
"It's time to go home buddy."
He sighs again, I wait. Around the two minute mark of looking towards each other but not at each other he stands and stiffly walks over to me and into the crate.
The front desk is awash with dogs; a giant Dobie bellows hello, a pittie woofs, a huge boxer lungs for the crate cradled in my arms.
And I still have to pay....
A beseeching tortured cry erupts from the crate and I start to giggle.
No comments:
Post a Comment