Hal has a cold. He's been coughing and wheezing and last night he sneezed once on my dinner and once on my arm. He's been zonking out and plays a half-assed game of laser tag. Orin had to show him how it was played last round and, well, Orin isn't the one you go to looking for advice on How to Be a Better Predator. One goes to Orin with questions like "Who sings that song from the 80s with all the synthesizers and moaning" or "I'd like to hack something, what should we hack?" or "Is this enough black eyeliner?"
I tried to take him to the vet wrapped in just a blanket, a short drive on my lap. Toonses used to hate travel, but he got over it by releasing his bowels onto my jeans during the drive. I considered it like cab fare. I expected a similar tradeoff with Hal. Instead he clawed his way free and I dropped him in the snow and he scratched the shit out of my hand and then I took him back inside the house for a do-over. That ended with me chasing him in loops from the laundry room to the storage room to under the couch to the main level and under the coffee table to upstairs where I finally trapped him in a hallway and carried him kicking and mewling and air-scratching to his carrier -- which he pushed out of before I could get it shut and here we go again. And again. And again.
Finally I had to call the vet and say: Do you have a later appointment? I can't catch him. I NEED HELP!
Chuck woke up to go to the bathroom -- his bladder likely triggered by my screams of Fuck you, Hal! Fucking A, Fuck you! Ouch! -- and found me standing at the bottom of the steps crying. I am just not good at handling animals in a way that goes against their will. They have teeth and sharp claws and wiggling is about my least favorite feeling. For instance, I'd never hold a frog. Chuck just walked down to the basement, picked Hal up, carried him upstairs and set him in the box. Easy-peasy. Show off.
I smirked when Hal got it right in the rectum with a thermometer. Little jerk.