My sweet loving cat, Van Gogh,—so named because he has one bad ear—had been losing weight in spite of eating and eating. Concerned I took him to have blood tests on Monday.  I pulled out my carrier, careful that he not see it, and loaded him into the car.

To say he does not like getting into the carrier is to highly exaggerate how he feels about it. He knows he doesn’t want to go. After the doctor is finished and it is time to come home, he feels much kindlier toward the carrier.

Tuesday, I discovered the tests showed his blood sugar was elevated and so, diabetic and will need insulin shots twice a day. My son had a diabetic cat so I knew how that worked. An all-day appointment at the vet’s office was required to have his initial insulin shots and discover what dose would be correct.

It was set for Wednesday.  I’ve usually been smart about putting him in a room so he couldn’t escape being put in the carrier, but Wednesday my smarts deserted me. I was ready to go by quarter to eight in order to be at the vet’s office between eight and eight-thirty.

The carrier was just outside my front door. I live in a mobile home with a limited number of rooms. Van Gogh saw the carrier and disappeared. I searched all of his normal hideouts. With a flashlight I looked and looked. There he cowered behind the electric fireplace TV stand that fits tightly into the corner of the living room. I closed the bedroom, office and bathroom doors, managed to maneuver the fireplace away from the wall and poke at Van Gogh enough to get him to leave there. He raced toward the bedroom only to be blocked.

I was pleased that now I certainly would be able to get him. Faster than I could blink, he jumped up on the washer and dryer and dove down behind them. There was no way to reach him other than to move either the washer or dryer.

What to do? I called the vet’s office to say I’d be late and would let them know when I’d retrieved my cat.

My friend, Cecile, came to my rescue with a can of shrimp cat food she knew he loved. She managed to move the washer and dryer a few inches from the wall. After many minutes of her sweet coaxing and the smell of the shrimp, he showed he’d like to come out, but he didn’t have room to jump. We solved that with a pillow.

Now he was out and was rewarded with a few bites of food while called to say I could be at vet’s by nine-thirty. That wouldn’t be too late.

Before he re-immerged, I put the carrier in the closed bathroom. He fought mightily against getting into it, but Cecile and I succeeded and I managed to get him to his treatment.

Next time he must go in the carrier, I will be more careful to hide my intentions.

Van Gogh is well. He hates waiting to eat until the twelve hours have passed since first meal of the day, but he doesn’t seem to notice when I give him his insulin shots, and has returned to his normal loving self.


One thought on “A VAN GOGH TRAUMA

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