It all started out so well.

I must confess that I dread taking my two older cats Enid and Zubby to the vet. For the whole 45 minute drive there and back I have two cats constantly wailing, "We're gonna die. We're gonna die. We're Gonna DIE." The endless caterwauling saps my very will to live.

You can well imagine my delight over the fact that Binky and Savannah uttered nary a peep during their trip to the vet Thursday.

The vet treated Savannah first and of course she was perfect. Sat quietly on the scale to be weighed, did not complain when her ears were checked for mites, patiently allowed the vet to examine her teeth. When the thermometer was inserted in her nether regions she laid there quietly. She didn't flinch when her stitches from her neutering were removed and she took her shots without a whimper.

And then it was Binky's turn. Binky did not want to sit still on the scale. At all. Fortunately, the vet has a large dog scale, so I got on that holding Binky, then got on again sans Binky and the difference in the weight gave us Binky's weight. Fine.

Binky did not want anyone looking in his ears. It took all my strength to hold him still, even using the neck scruff hold, but his ears were examined.

Okay, fine.

He growled when the vet looked at his teeth. He growled a bit more when she popped the worm pill down his throat. She mentioned that he is a feisty little cat. That's one word for it, I guess.

Hmmm, how to describe what happened next � Ah, okay, I've got it. Know how sometimes you'll see a cartoon and they show a cat that's just had an enormous electrical shock and the animal's fur is all spiked out and its legs are splayed every which way and it's rocketing up in the air?

Well, that gives you a sense of Binky's reaction when the vet inserted the thermometer in his buttal region in order to get his temperature.

"Someone has put something in my poop chute!," he yowled, rocketing up in the air with enough force that even though I was holding him down, he still managed to get at least a foot off the table. I am not a delicate blossom. I use 20 pound weights now for my bicep curls and use 40 pounds of weight for my skull crushers. That tiny little cat exerted enough force I could not hold him down.

The vet and I exchanged a look. She still hadn't given him any shots.

Aye, carumba.

I strengthened my grip on his scruff and put my other hand on his back. The vet grabbed a fold of skin, expertly gave him his shot and the freakin' cat bit me. At the very last millisecond he realized it was me and he didn't quite break skin, but it was close.

I muttered dark things about how some cats have a very damaged sense of gratitude and it wasn't that big a drive to go back to the shelter. Binky growled equally dark things about how nobody has the right to put anything in his body, thank you very much. We glared at each other. We were both feeling mighty hissy at that moment.

The vet called in her assistant. It took three of us, but Binky got his final needle. Fortunately, it wasn't much of a struggle to get him back into his carrier. It's a very good thing indeed that the car was silent on the way home because my very last nerve was frayed.

Savannah sailed through the whole experience, but that evening Binky was definitely under the weather. Instead of Hurricane Binky, all we had was a slightly feverish cat who curled up on the end of our bed and wouldn't lift his head, even when Enid leapt up on the bed and sniffed him tentatively.

The spousal unit spent the night lying on the bed with Enid on one side and Binky on the other side of him. We had great hopes that a sort of d�tente had been achieved, that we would see Peace In Our Time.

We are such foolish, na�ve people.

By Friday morning Binky was back to himself, chasing Savannah up and down the upstairs and eating at least twice his body weight in kibble. Friday night, when we attempted to repeat the Enid and Binky napping on the bed experiment it, uh, it did not go well.

Remember that scene in Old Yeller where Yeller breaks out in rabies? 'Member? 'Member how he charges the fence, body rigid with rage, fangs bared, mouth foaming? Yeah, well, that was Binky, except instead of foam he was drooling. I went to grab him as he was launching himself at Enid And Certain Death and for my trouble he again bit me. I'm telling you now that if he had broken skin, the cat would have found his butt back in the shelter so fast he'd still be looking for his head.

"Binky seems to have anger management issues," the spousal unit opined drily. He has nicknamed Binky "Little Psycho". The spousal unit takes evil glee in reminding me every chance he gets that it was my impulse to bring Binky home.

This afternoon I again tried bringing Enid upstairs while Binky and Savannah were there. Binky growled at her and said some pretty cheap things. Enid just blinked. She climbed up into the small loft where the spousal unit meditates and Binky followed her up the ladder-like steps with the intention of opening a can of whup on her.

Enid understands military tactics and knows full well that the general who holds the high ground holds an advantage. She waited at the top of the steps. When Binky tried to thwap her, she cuffed him smartly upside the head and he tumbled down one step. That left him with his two front paws hooked over the step to keep from tumbling down the rest of the steps.

With his legs tied up just to keep from falling off the steps, Enid could have used Binky as a punching bag (and don't think I wasn't tempted to let her do it). Instead, I grabbed a sweatshirt, wrapped it around my hands, and picked up a roaring Binky who was just rigid with fury and humiliation.

"Somebody needs a time out," I told him as I tossed him into my office and closed the door behind him. I'm guessing he understood that as much as I understand Urdu. At least he didn't try to bite me.

There's that.

As I write this, Binky is curled up in my lap purring softly and Savannah is dozing right by my feet. It's hard to reconcile this gentle little gray cat, the cat who plays so joyously with Savannah, with the psychotic beast who tries to disembowel my older cats.

I keep reminding myself that things didn't go easily when I was trying to fold Enid and Norma into the house with Zubby. But the thing is, Enid and Norma never, ever showed the sort of rage Binky does. I'm not ready to give up on him yet, but I have to admit that this little guy is proving to be a much bigger challenged than I ever dreamed. Tomorrow I'm going to phone the woman who runs the shelter to see if she has any tips to help us get over this.

"No personality," the spousal unit said when he saw Binky at the shelter.

Man, if only that was true.

--Marn

P.S.�If you have a few bucks to spare, please consider donating to the Jog for the Jugs. Remember, all your donations are going to help in the fight against breast cancer and they're in Canadian dollars, which are only marginally more valuable than monopoly money. The most recent Bazonga Boosters (or Bustiers) to their friends are:

Mileage on the Marnometer: 986.65 miles. Over half way there. Oh, man, please let this be over