It is time for my cats’ annual checkup and vaccinations, so I load them into the cat carrier and prepare myself for the most stressful seven minute drive I endure all year. Alien mostly just works herself into a vegetative state as soon as I turn on the engine, making her body as small as it can possibly get or burying her head under the fleece blanket lining the carrier. Predator, on the other hand, takes a much different approach. He starts screaming and clawing at the door to his carrier from the second I buckle my seatbelt. There is nothing I can do to calm his cries, so I turn up the radio instead.
The woman at the front desk verifies my address and tells me to have a seat. I notice that the office is firmly divided between cat people and dog people, and I don’t want to make waves so I sit next to a woman talking in soothing tones to two boxes covered with dishtowels. Angel has an eye infection, but Cocoa is just there for moral support. And perhaps a nail trim.
“I found Cocoa four years ago. Well… he found me, really. Showed up on my porch one day and been with me ever since. Sweetest cat you’ll ever see, so calm, good natured. Angel, on the other hand…”
I open up the door to my cat carrier, letting Predator peek his head out and sniff the air. He is silent. Alien is a blue fleece lump. A stylish young man walks in and the screeching begins once again. I tell Predator to be quiet, but then realize that he wasn’t talking, it was that man’s cat.
A Siamese, I think. I’d know that voice anywhere.
He sits on the other side of me and notices Predator halfway out of his carrier.
“Oh, you have a Siamese, too? How old is he?”
“He’s seven. I knew yours must have been Siamese by his meow. How old is yours?”
“Magnus is seventeen! Can you believe that?”
As he says the word seventeen, he turns Magnus’ cat carrier toward me, and I regret to admit that I instinctively lurch backwards. I have never seen anything quite like this animal in my life, and am struck by the thought that it looks like a Picasso interpretation of a Siamese cat.
“He’s here because we think he might have cataracts. And he can’t walk very well, but the vet said his leg isn’t broken or anything, so they’re just going to give him a shot and see if that perks him up.”
I’m no veterinarian, but I’m pretty certain that Siamese cats are not supposed to have white eyes, so I mentally concur with the cataract diagnosis. Magnus also has a droopy lip on one side that flaps a bit when he meows, and since I’ve never seen a curly-haired Siamese before, I suspect he has mange.
Cocoa’s owner looks at us and says, “Wow! They could be twins!”
I think to myself, yes, they could be twins, if Predator were cryogenically frozen and suddenly reanimated in the year 2045 by his evil twin Magnus. In that case, they’re identical.
It is finally my cats’ turn for their checkup, so I lug the carrier into the back room and unload Predator onto the stainless steel exam table. I warn my vet ahead of time that he will hiss at her incessantly, but not to take it personally. He’s just very private.
“Is he having any health problems?”
“No, no. Well, I think he’s gaining weight.”
“Okay, let’s just get him on the scale by himself and see… Whoa! Yeah, he’s fat.”
I feel shame.
“So Predator is 15.5 pounds, and that’s up a pound from last year. What does he usually eat?”
“I only feed him dry food – Iams or Science Diet – and I give him a cup a day.”
“Whoa! Each? That’s twice as much as they should be eating!”
“But… but, that’s what it says to feed them on the bag…”
I feel shame.
She recommends that I don’t just immediately cut their diet in half, but supplement their meals with something that will make them feel more full. Something with fiber. Something like canned French cut green beans.
“Canned French cut green beans?”
“Yes, so many people have told me their cats love them.”
“Are you sure they didn’t say dogs?”
“Trust me. And you should really get him to exercise a little. You should buy multi-colored ping-pong balls, poke a hole in them, and put a few grains of rice inside. They’ll bat those around the house all day long.”
Or for thirty seconds, I think, until they roll under the couch, otherwise known as the catnip mouse burial ground.
I shrug my shoulders and pull Alien out of the carrier before shoving my morbidly obese boy cat back in. Alien’s exam goes much more smoothly, mainly because it’s like examining a person in a coma. She just sits there, staring at some distant point in space, imagining she is far away from the antiseptic smell and harsh noises of this exam room. I like to think that she can still hear my voice, so I hold her paw and tell her it will all be over soon.
“Alien is at a good weight, and her teeth are beautiful.”
I feel pride.
As I pay my bill and pick up their rabies tags, I nod and smile at Magnus’ owner, but avoid making direct eye contact with the cat. I just can’t bear to look. The trip home takes less than five minutes, because I am eager to get to the grocery store and start my cats on a high fiber, healthy diet.
As soon as I set the carrier on the kitchen floor and open the door, both cats burst out and run into the living room, only to return one minute later and crawl back inside the carrier to work through some sort of feline Stockholm syndrome.
At the grocery store, I am amazed to see how many versions of canned green beans there are, but I know that I must find the prescribed French cut ones. For a good forty-five seconds, I debate whether to buy the store brand or the Green Giant brand, and then am appalled that I would haggle over thirty cents when my cats’ health is on the line.
Back in my apartment, I call Alien and Predator to the kitchen and tell them I have a special treat for them. As soon as they hear the can opener, they start meowing and rubbing up against my legs, which I never understand since I can’t recall ever feeding them cat food from a can that wasn’t a pop top. Who has taught them to associate a can opener with food? Television, I suppose.
With a great flourish, I set down the paper plate of Green Giant French cut green beans in front of them, and they look at me as if I have just set down a paper plate of Green Giant French cut green beans in front of them.
They don’t even bother doing a courtesy sniff before walking away with their tails in the air.
I stand in the kitchen, dejected, and as I lean against the counter eating the remaining green beans straight out of the can, I make a mental note to find out where I can buy multi-colored ping pong balls.

Filed under: General on February 6th, 2008