In a few minutes, I have to take Riley Wiley Porter, our exceptionally portly snow-white cat, to the veterinarian for his annual shots.

Oh, how he dreads this ordeal. 

Oh, how I dread this ordeal.

I will sneak up into the attic to get the plastic cat-carrier that he refers to as The Box of the River Styx.  I will try to position it somewhere near the back door without being seen by Riley, but this will be nearly impossible, as he does have a sixth-sense about such things because he is, after all, a cat.

Then, I will capture him, which will ultimately mean that I will stand the living room couch up on end and grab him by one hind leg and haul him out wailing like a banshee, and a banshee can wail like crazy, and Riley will be wailing even worse than I.

It will next be necessary for me to transport him from the living room to the back room and stuff him into the cat carrier.  Our cat carrier is plenty big enough for two cats, which means it is just barely big enough for His Royal Rotundness, especially when he angrily puffs himself up to the size of a monster truck tire on steroids.  

By this time, I’ll be bleeding from claw marks, and I still won’t be done because I’ll need to close the door on the cat carrier, and Riley Wiley Porter knows some Ninja and Kung Fu locksmith tricks and can prevent this from happening. 

Once in the car, he will start up with a keening and howling that will last the short drive to the veterinarian’s office, and, once inside, it will change to a roguish hissing brought on by whatever other animals might be in the office. The good people in the office will extract Riley Wiley Porter from the cage, weigh him and give him his shots, and expertly put him back in the cage so I can bring him back home, howling and keening and growling all the while. 

Back in the house, I’ll open the door of the cage and Riley will look out at me and then say, “Thanks, but I kind of like it in here, so if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just take a wee bit of a nap right here and sleep off these drugs.  Now, buzz off, buster!”  

By then, it will be 4:00 and at 5:00, he’ll show up near me again and start telling me that nobody has fed him for several days and that without some food---“RIGHT NOW, DAMNIT!!!” he’ll starve to death and I’ll have to contend with his ghost and perpetual haunting to say nothing of doing something with the withered husk of his emaciated and underfed carcass. He’s quite thorough in these descriptions of his deprivations, and he goes through the same histrionic routine three times every day, beginning an hour before mealtimes.  

After he eats, Riley Wiley Porter will repair to our bed to take his 17^th nap of the day, curled up next to Wrigley W. Whitehouse, Dog, who is never allowed on our bed except when we aren’t looking, which is most the time.  

There now---I’m back.  It’s over, and hardly any of my predictions came true.  Riley Wiley Porter behaved just fine.  Marsha is leaning over my shoulder reading this.

“You shouldn’t be so pessimistic,” she says.  “And, you shouldn’t wear your black fleece jacket when you take a fat white cat to the vet.”

                             by Jim Whitehouse

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