My Trip to the Vet

20 Jul

OK. So my girlfriend has this cat. The cat’s name is Swarley. “What an interesting name! Where does it come from?” I’ll tell you, faceless reader. Swarley means, in Hebrew “He whom God has forgotten.” [Editor’s Note: Lie.] It also is a reference to a moment of hilarity in the hit television show How I Met Your Mother. [Editor’s Note: Truth.]

Anyway, since Katie lacks an automobile on this day, she asked if I’d be terribly inconvenienced by driving her and her animal thirty or so miles north to the veterinarian’s office. Of course, I said it’d be a terrible inconvenience and that I simply could not do it. Katie then smiled, put one hand on her hip, and with the other lifted her shirt to reveal the handle of a .38 caliber pistol. She then stopped smiling and pointed directly at me.

We got to the office roughly thirty of forty minutes later. The waiting room is probably the nicest of any veterinarian’s office I’ve ever seen. It’s way nicer than the one my mother took me to when I was a child *Quietly leans away from keyboard, repressing terrible childhood memories*.

The waiting room was clad in Texas iron-work and dark wood tones. Really nice. I almost fell asleep, but Swarley jumped onto my neck, digging his claws deep into my flesh. The pain was searing. I jumped and Katie pulled him off. I swear to god, as I was wiping the bits of blood from my neck, the animal smiled at me. I’m now terrified. I spend the rest of the waiting period across the room, pretending to read about heart worms, but really just watching Swarley and his tiny, smiling, cat face.

We take him to the vet and everything goes smoothly. Everything goes smoothly until we go to leave, however. As we’re crossing the parking lot, I notice two distinct bulges on her back and stomach.

“Katie, what are those?” I point at the two undulating masses under her t shirt.

“What the f– What are you talking about?” She begins to open her door when one of the bulges meows.

“…” I pause.

“I have two cats in my shirt.” Katie says, embarrassed.

“That’s fine,” I say. “I have the vet’s son in mine.” Katie suddenly notices the muffled cries of a 86 lb. lump protruding from my shirt. “I’m going to write the vet a letter, describing how I’m using her son as collateral in case anything happens to Swarley. We get our cat back, they get their son back.”

“…” She pauses. Her shirt meows some more.

“I don’t want to pay to feed those stupid cats. They can’t even be ransomed. Nobody notices when a cat dies.” This is the exact moment that I became single again.

“You are stealing a child. You know how much those things eat? Way more than a cat.”

“Wait, more?”

“Yes!”

“Can’t we just feed them the same thing?”

“God, no! We can’t feed them the same thing! OK…” She puts her hand to her face, massaging the bridge of her nose. “OK. I don’t want to feed your kid and you don’t want to feed my cats. Let’s juts give them both back. Deal?”

“Deal.”

We gave them all back. After that, we went to a gas station, bought some Doritos and drove to a junk yard to shoot stuff with Katie’s gun.

What a great day.

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