We took our cat to the vet this week. She injured her hip and was limping around the house, so we needed to get it checked. She was okay. Got some meds and is on the mend, but good gravy, she hates the vet.
The sound coming out of this 9-pound cat rightly belongs to some ancient monster complaining about the heat in the depths of Mount Doom. There’s no comforting her, either. She turns on us instantly. So much so, that we often feel the need to show pictures of how cuddly she is at home.
Really, we protest, she’s a sweetie.
Of course, this time we couldn’t even go in with her. I handed her off to some technician on the sidewalk in the middle of a blizzard, and walked around with my 3 year old on my back, until the vet called twenty minutes later and said we could come pick her up.
I wish I could have been in there with her. Despite knowing that she would’ve attacked me and everyone in sight with the speed of an Olympic cat half her age (that’s a thing, right?), and despite knowing that I’d sheepishly grin at the vet forced to put on thick gloves while calling for back-up, I still should have been there. But that wasn’t up to me.
There’s so much that’s out of our control, particularly in the endless fugue that is Covid. The blocks we built with such tentative hope have fallen apart. Again. Plans have been cancelled or postponed. Again. It’s hard to know what to hope for anymore…and when.
But there are also things we can control.
I can choose how to respond in my own little corner of the world. Like, right now I think I’ll choose to snuggle my cat while she’s not (overly) pissed at me. So, I think that’s what I’m going to do.
Wish me luck.