Bink is used to his staff acting a certain way each morning. We get up, give him breakfast, and then open the front door. He rockets outside for the morning and does whatever it is a small gray cat does out in the woods for three or four hours.

Only today is the day I have to take the cats to the vet for their annual shots. I can't risk him disappearing into the woods and not appearing in time for the 45 minute trip to the vet. So this morning the routine went:

1) spousal unit and I get up
2) I feed the cats
3) small gray cat starts pacing the kitchen wondering why his staff hasn't opened the front door so he can do whatever it is a small gray cat does out in the woods for three or four hours
4) small gray cat starts whining softly under his breath over man's inhumanity to cat
5) small gray cat ups the volume of his complaints. While I don't speak fluent cat, I suspect sarcasm is involved.
6) small gray cat marches up to me, yelling loudly, and bats my leg quite hard, with claws out.

I yelled, "Ow" plus a tart observation about the possibility that Bink was born out of wedlock.

The spousal unit snickered. "I think that's his way of telling us to expect a sharply worded letter from his lawyer if this situation isn't resolved."

That one made tea come out my nose. I love it that after almost 40 years together that the spousal unit can say something totally unexpected that cracks me up big time.

I dread the annual vet visit. Eeny spends the whole drive screaming, which winds the other two cats up and ensures that all three cats are a big ball of frantic. The vet has to get her tech in to handle Binky, who is so crazed with terror that sometimes he has a bit of foam on his mouth.

It kills me to see them so distraught for no logical reason.

I can pretty much guarantee that at least one cat will urinate in a carrier on the way home. Not only do I get to bask in the sweet, sweet smell of cat urine for about 45 minutes, when I get home I have at least one towel from a carrier to wash and at least one carrier to wash and disinfect.

Good times.

I'm going in for cataract surgery on Wednesday, so I'm not exactly a big ball of relaxed happiness myself. Someone is going to poke a hole in my eye, suck out the lens, and put in a plastic lens.

What could go wrong with that?

When you find yourself unable to sleep a few days before someone is going to poke a hole in your eye ON PURPOSE and you're asking yourself, "What could go wrong with that?" I really, really can't recommend Dr. Google enough. Because Dr. Google will spell out in excruciating detail just what exactly can go wrong and all the assurances of your very competent surgeon will amount to squat.

Intellectually I know that this is a ten minute day surgery with a success rate of something in the 95 per cent range. Really, it's no big. But emotionally? I'm doing the duck thing, calm on the surface, churning madly under the surface.

Normally I would ask the spousal unit to take the cats to the vet, but he's under huge time pressures from his work. So off we will go, me with teeth clenched, three cats wailing loudly.

Sigh.

Do you suppose that while I'm asleep, the cats have been Googling about things that can go wrong at the vet's office? Do you think they've picked up on all the vaccine controversies? Hrm. Maybe I should cut them some slack, eh?

--Marn