mortification personified

I took Renton to the vet today and ended up with the jolting experience of what it would be like to live in a Get Fuzzy cartoon.

Renton was not only hissing, growling, and taking swipes at anybody daring to touch his person . . . oh no, this cat was foaming at the mouth. FOAMING AT THE MOUTH! Drool everywhere! I was in the corner with my head in my hands, horrified. He only needed his annual vaccinations and there was a bit of a weepy eye thing. He did better that time when he had to get the enemas.

By the end of the annual exam — which the doctor was telling me he could not complete unless they sedated him — I was told that from now on it was probably best not to bring Renton on the weekends because they DON’T HAVE ENOUGH STAFF TO HANDLE HIM. Weekdays only, please.

The worst part was as they were about to put Renton back into his cage the vet looked down at his arm and asked of one of the staff, “Could you get that claw out of my arm, please?” The lab helper then pulls out this long talon — Renton’s calling card. He left a few people bleeding today.

Satan Cat.