So... I return to the Veneta Community Center to collect my little Siamese cat at promptly eight o'clock in the evening. I am standing outside amongst so many other cat owners and collectors (the service specializes in fixing feral cats). The head vet comes outside in the fading light to de-brief us on the day's events. "We fixed 77 cats today," she began, "54 of which were female..." She goes on to say that there weren't any problems, all the cats made it through just fine. She describes to us the drunken state they may still be in as the drugs are wearing off. She describes our cats as being "slinky cats" and that we should enjoy it while we can. They may be staring wide-eyed and lolling tongue out at the world, but don't worry, they're just fine. Then she says, "Who had number 6?" Of 77 cats, she calls my number! I panic for a second until I remember that she said there hadn't been any problems, then I timidly raise my hand. She smiles down at me and said, "you said she was such a sweet cat, that little Siamese, but she was the meanest cat we had in there today!" I smiled and blushed a litte, "sorry" I mouthed to the chuckling crowd.
We were let inside finally and instructed on how to collect and leave with our pet. All the cats seemed to be waking up just fine. There were some drunken "meows" and heads were looking around, but Sasha was completely limp in her carrier. I approached the head vet with her and said with a smile, "You must have needed to give her extra." She looked into the carrier and responded, "No, we pushed her surgery until later when one of us had gotten up the courage to handle her!"
So that's it. My sweet little Sasha is a naughty girl inside. Family and friends who knew her in her younger years would agree wholeheartedly. But I've softened over time, as she's matured, she's mellowed out. Apparently clinics and carriers and strangers bring it all back to the surface again!
