On Friday, Chef and I took two of our cats to the vet. Mila and Attila got their first taste of shots, Nashville style. How that would differ from the style they got them in their old hometown, I'm not quite sure, but I like the sound of it better.
The thing about the vet is that we try to hide our cat mania to a certain extent. We don't tend to gush too much or elaborate about their personalities, but instead come prepared with intelligent questions. This time went much better than the last time, that's for sure.
The last time we visited the vet, we got a vet who we were told loved cats. Being that Genghis is a Pixie Bob and polydactyl, he tends to get a lot of attention. We had come in for shots and decided against getting one of them. When I was explaining our position to the vet, she was appalled that we would rather take our advice from many testimonials than her veterinary education and year or so of practice. I told her that I would take her advice if she did a little research on our breed of cat before making a recommendation, but that just pissed her off more. It was a showdown the likes of which I'm sure will be repeated in doctor's offices for our future children. Needless to say, we have a different vet within the same clinic now.
The cats are healthy and thriving. And we got a solution that seems to be working for Mila's poop problem. Nothing says love like clenaing up piles of turds from carpet. At least the carpet is brown too.
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