She's Doing What?

The Cat In The Hat Box

A few years ago we had the loveliest little cat take up residence with us. We assumed she was a drop off but liked her so much that we decided to keep her. She was fluffy orange and white and was so sweet.

She made herself right at home and within a few weeks was a full fledged member of the family. We spoiled her and fed her until she was sleek and beautiful. But, then we decided to be good, responsible citizens and have her spayed. As much as we liked her, we didn't want to be covered up with kittens.

We decided to find a nice box with a lid and use it to take her to the vet. Now, we live in Texas, and as I am sure you all know, everyone wears cowboy hats. It's a standard part of the cowboy or wannabe cowboy attire. So, I found a nice Stetson box with a good sturdy lid and we called the vet to make the appointment.

The next morning we got the box ready and went looking for Fluffy. She was sleeping peacefully on the foot of our bed blissfully unaware of our scheme. I told my husband to just lift her and put her in the box and I would put the lid on. Quick, no problem, right?

She was fine until she looked down and realized he was putting her in the box. Then, in one split second that cat turned into The Terminator. All four legs went out straight from her body with claws fully extended and ready for battle. She latched onto the sides of the box, effectively eliminating any chance of sliding her in easily. She twisted, hissed and fought like a tiger. My husband looked as though he had a furry octupus attached to his hand.

I always realized that cats were flexible, but I never knew they could wrap all four legs around your arm to dig in their claws while you held them by the scruff of the neck! Realizing my husband was going to be shredded into bloody spaghetti, I began to yell "let her go, let her go!!". Of course, being the macho man that he is, he wasn't about to give up the battle. Five minutes later the cat was in the box and we were spitting fur out of our mouths and breathing hard.

We made the trip to the vet without incident and I made arrangements to pick her up the next morning. When I arrived at the vet's office the next day I said, "Hello, I'm Mrs D.. and I'm here to pick up my cat. I brought her in to be spayed yesterday."

The receptionist looked at me strangely. "Let me check the book. Oh, yes, I see. He was to be neutered."

"No, spayed," I replied, quite sure I was right.

"No, neutered," she said.

About that time the vet walked out with Fluffy draped over his arm. The cat threw me a baleful glare and turned his head away from me in absolute disgust.

Poor boy, no wonder he fought so hard.