Crime, Shame & Reintegration

So, we had to take New Cat (his name is Magic, by the way. Did I mention that?) back to the vet this week for his second distemper shot. He's so good. He cried for the first twenty feet of our walk and then totally chilled out. He meowed a bit at the vet, but mostly pressed his face up against the bars of the kennel, like a convict looking for the messages kiting down the line.

We had a different vet again, of course, but this one was grey-haired and had a great bedside manner. He answered our questions [Us: Doc, why does New Cat's breath smell like ass? Vet: Um, I could offer you some Altoids?], told us how good he was, and that we were very good parents. *smile*

Before the vet came in, we were getting checked by the assistant. She said "Is this the nice cat?" I said "Well, he's nicer than our other cat, yeah. She's a biter. This one seems pretty even-tempered." She said "Oh, it must be the other cat. There's a warning on the file." I looked down on the page and in some veterinary hieroglyphics was a cranky-faced kitty cat and I think it might have said "STEP AWAY FROM THE TEETH! BITER! BITERRRRR!" I'm not sure, but that's what it looked like to me.

So, not only are we those people who don't know they have a boy cat - didn't you think to look? GAH! - but also those people who have the BITER! The assistant said that most people get mad when they see that on their pet's record. The Targo and I shrugged. "We know she's a biter. How do you think I lost my hand?"*

*For the record, I do have both hands. One's just severely damaged from all of the DAMNED biting.