On Point

Dealing with pesky pets

By: Joan Ruddiman
   The other day I got a reminder notice from the vet. It seems the bloodhound and the cat are due for their yearly checkup. This might seem simple and straightforward enough for responsible pet owners who have control over their animals. For me, it is yet another stress producing responsibility that takes weeks of preparation to accomplish.
   Let’s start with the cat. I think I mentioned before he’s not really my cat, he’s just the cat. By this I mean he more or less does what he wants when he wants, prefers to remain outside 90 percent of the time and struts around with an air of superiority that demands attention. Since our relationship is less than cozy, I can’t figure out why I let him intimidate me.
   The nice people at the vet’s office can’t understand this. To them, bringing your cat in seems like a pretty uncomplicated request. To me, it means enlisting the help of four burly men dressed in protective gear; ideally these men have no families and a death wish. I have to set up my living room as command central — complete with charts, diagrams and state of the art communication devices. Working a practice drill several times before attempting the actual capture is admirable but futile. Ultimately, if the cat doesn’t want to get caught, he won’t.
   As if this scenario isn’t embarrassing enough, I also have to deal with the bloodhound. If you happen to be a few pounds overweight, perhaps you’ve had to endure a friendly lecture from your family doctor. When your dog is a few pounds overweight the lecture is not so cordial. All of a sudden, I’m irresponsible and shortening the life expectancy of my pet. Let me assure you, I’m not that lucky. Undoubtedly, he will outlive me. He sleeps 23 hours, 30 minutes a day. He only wakes to slobber, shed dog hair on all my furniture, eat everything he can find and leave a big present in the yard.
   Normally, anyone can do anything they want to him and he tolerates it. But for some reason, when I take him to the vet he turns into Cujo. If he were a little foo-foo dog I could just hold him down and make polite excuses for his petulant behavior. At 150 pounds, I need to muzzle him and give him tranquilizers. This seems like a good idea until I have to drag his dead weight through the parking lot. I need a folk lift to get him on the examining table.
   This year I’ve devised a new plan. I’ve booked their appointments with the vet and a flight out of town for myself. I also left a note for the kids telling them to try their best to get the pets corralled and transported at the designated place and time. I know this was mean, but hey, life is tough. It’s better to learn that while they are young. I guess another year will pass and I won’t be nominated, again, for that darn "Mother of the Year" award.
Linda McCarthy resides in Robbinsville with her husband and three children.