Yesterday I documented our decision to treat Sir Charles Buttonsworth's diabetes on BlogHer.

There were requests for video of Kizzy's insanity. Happy Friday!

I knew something was fishy the moment she approached me. She NEVER sits on the couch in the morning. She's always running this way and that, muttering "LATE! LATE!" even when she works from home in that stupid leather chair I can't fit into behind her. (I have tried. Nonadjustable arms.)

But she patted the seat beside her, all nice and cooing, and I, like an idiot, walked right into it. She grabbed me and he held open some sort of gauche gym-bag-looking-wannabe-designer-cat-bag thing. He stuffed me in headfirst. I was so totally pissed. HISS.

I will wait until they sleep. Then I will sit on their chests and breathe menacing breaths until they wake up.

Then I will wait for them to fall asleep and DO IT AGAIN.

She drove me to the vet and left me there for five hours. WITH OTHER ANIMALS. I hate other animals.  And she should never leave me like that.

Because maybe. Just maybe? I was a little bit scared.

HISS.

Then the stupid vet said something about "fecal test" and also told me I have a cavity and have to have a tooth extracted AT A LATER DATE. Which means I HAVE TO COME BACK.

But next time ... next time, I will see her coming.

Fuck you.