Raven, our black cat, needed to see the veterinarian. But I procrastinated about making the appointment. When she hawked up her fourth softball-size hairball in as many days I knew the time had come. I hung up the phone and told Doug, "Tomorrow morning at nine."
With a sigh of resignation, he said, "I'll check our supplies of antibiotic ointment, bandages, and tourniquets." Then, "Maybe we should get a defibrillator," he pondered aloud.
"It might not be so bad this time," I suggested, trying to sound upbeat.
"Right," replied Doug. "And I'm gonna win 'Dancing with the Stars' next season."
Raven resists being placed in the cat carrier. She makes her opposition quite clear using what her mama gave her. Still, working as a team, Doug and I can usually round her up and cram her into the carrier with a minimum of physical injury and emotional trauma- — for any of us.
We got up at 4 a.m. to give ourselves time to corral Raven, dress our wounds, and still get to the vet by 9 a.m. We start by trying to act casual, as though it were just a morning like any other, with no dastardly plan afoot to cage to the cat. Also, we keep the carrier hidden until the last minute. I even bought a new one with plastic gates and latches, so it wouldn't make that tell-tale jangling sound that gives us away. And, of course, we spell any words that might tip Raven off; such as, "Where's the c-a-r-r-i-e-r for the c-a-t?"
Even with all these precautions, she always knows. Somehow, Raven always knows what's up. This particular morning, she was hiding defiantly under the bed.
Wearing his cat-wrangling suit — the same kind police trainers wear when teaching K-9 dogs to attack bad guys — Doug arrived in the bedroom doorway. Pulling on thick leather gloves, he declared it time to "rock 'n' roll," then he lunged for the cat.
Anticipating this attack, Raven shot out from under the bed like a sprinter from the starting block as Doug grabbed at air. "Look at her go!" I marveled. "Not bad for a 13-year-old cat!" There was a sudden BOOM! and my eardrums felt funny.
"What was that?" Doug asked, his eyeballs jiggling. "Sonic boom," I said. But Doug was already in hot pursuit of a black cat zipping around like a gazelle being chased by a lion. Doug tripped over a footstool, fetched up against the door, and hit the floor with a thud. "Go. Garage," he panted. "Get...big...fishing net!" I was wondering if he was kidding when he wheezed, "I'm not kidding!"
Eventually, Doug had Raven in a half nelson while I tried to maneuver the carrier into position for Operation Drop-and-Lock. "Unlatch the door!" Doug barked. "Yiiiaaaoooowww!" wailed Raven, trying to squirm away. "Waaaah!" I sobbed, because my kitty was unhappy.
As Doug bent to propel Raven through the open gate, she suddenly seemed to grow four more legs— and all eight paws were up against the edges of the gate and hanging on like grim death. "Get her legs!" cried Doug. "Which ones?" I panicked. "Any of them!" he bawled.
With Raven finally in the carrier, I slammed the gate and latched it. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I looked over at Doug. He was slumped against the closet door, babbling incoherently and asking for his mother.
"Maybe she won't need a follow-up appointment," I suggested hopefully. "Hold that thought," Doug said. "Hold it tight."