A decidedly rough visit to the V-E-T

We had to shlep the Tuffster to the V-E-T this morning for her post-tooth-extraction check-up. We managed to capture her alright, and even to confine her wriggling body into the cage – she *knew* that something awful was about to happen to her, poor thing.

All was still going quite smoothly, when we arrived at the vet.

Then Dr Mac lifted her out of the cage by the scruff of her neck, which she really didn’t like, judging from the squeak of protest she emitted.

He held her firmly with his left hand and used the tip of his pen to peer into her mouth. He showed us where the teeth had been extracted on the right side of her mouth – a lower premolar was gone, and one carnassial at the top. I used the opportunity to peer into her mouth myself, as she hasn’t thus far kept it open for me voluntarily!

“Good,” he said, “it’s healing very nicely.”

He reached for the bottle of antibiotics, which we’d brought along, thinking that he could then give her the morning dose too, while we were at it.

At that point, Tuffy had enough, and she swatted at him with a paw. Ouch!

Undeterred, he grabbed her more firmly, pushed her down, and skilfully prepared the dose with the other hand.

It was like watching a car accident about to happen. Both hubby and myself were frozen to the spot. I sensed that Tuffy was thoroughly fed-up, if not already seriously p’d off – and thus the battle unfolded before our eyes.

She swatted at his hand, catching him with a claw; the dropper with the medication was sent flying, he released his grip for a nano-second, she spun herself around, and scrabbled for purchase on the smooth metal surface of the examination table. He tried to regain his hold on her with both hands, but she had succeeded in getting her claws around the edge of the exam table, and she wasn’t letting go without a fight! Eventually she did, but she was hissing and spitting and mewling, ears flattened and the fur on her back standing up in a thick ridge!!

He got her back into position, prepared another dose, and managed to shoot part of it into her mouth, while the rest went way past the target. Furious now, spitting and hissing and wriggling like crazy, she swatted at him again, catching him once more, and drawing blood this time.

“Right,” he said, determinedly, “we’d better get those claws clipped!”

Hubby, clearly realising that more manpower was needed, wrapped the towel firmly around her neck and upper body, pinning her down with his weight, while the vet methodically clipped every single one of our kitten’s long, pointy and decidedly effective claws, front and back. I could see from the look on her face, as she was returned to the cage, that she was furious at having lost the battle, proud at having put up such a spirited fight, and feeling a little helpless and miserable, all at the same time.

Poor munchkin.

Thank heavens, she had forgiven us by the time we made it home. And thank God, we won’t have to take her back to the big scary man in the white coat for a while.

But we DO have to finish the course of antibiotics.

That’s great.

Not.

Sooo not.

P.S. I think she is really missing her claws. She hasn’t been able to get rid of her frustrations by rhythmically clawing at her scratching post or the scratching branch in the garden. Or for that matter at the carpet (which is a good thing, in our eyes!).

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