I Pity the Vet

It is the afternoon scheduled for my parent's cat, Friskie, to have his claws cut.  Poor Friskie, to the delight of the wild rabbits that taunt him from the driveway, he is not allowed out anymore.  It was a decision made by my mother.  Friskie is her tranquilizer.  She does not share his love of freedom nor does she approve of his tree climbing, flea gathering or woodland curiosity.  Friskie is the worry stone she strokes. 

I am dressed in a shirt that's too big everywhere.  I think it is chic.  Falling as it does all soft and ill-shaped.  Friskie doesn't care what I'm wearing unless there are tuna bits stuck in the sleeves.  Which there aren't.  Though I am isolated up here near the top of the hill, I am not yet that crazy lady living in a double wide, with her insane parents, who hides food in her clothes for the cat.

I will cajole Friskie into his carry case with treats that he can't resist.  Little bits of catnip and fish flavored   crackers that drive all cats into a cocaine-like frenzy.  This may be one of the reasons some people refuse to become veterinarians.  Hyped up felines who fear the clippers could be a difficult way to earn a paycheck.  However, anyone who has a job in today's economy should count themselves fortunate regardless of the freaked out animals they call clients.