My cat, Petunia, is thought the world over to be a hellcat. When you ask my niece what Petunia says, she says "HISS." The neighbor girl who desperately wants a cat is scared of Petunia. And the last vet we had saw Petunia as a personal challenge, a mustang to be broken, a spirit to crush. 

Petunia, at home, looks more like this.

But when we went to our old vet, Petunia would barely be out of her travel carrier before she transformed into a flat-eared, fanged, hissing, spitting, malevolent force of nature capable of stealing your breath and banishing you to the land of lost souls. And that sometimes could occur even in the lobby. After two or three rounds of this, the vet suggested we tranq her before bringing her in.

See those pupils?

After the last visit last December in which Petunia was getting her three teeth cleaned (she had to have one canine pulled when we adopted her because of tooth decay) and that little procedure took twelve hours, I called last straw. I couldn't take it anymore. I know Petunia wasn't being abused, but the mental anguish I was going through seeing her so revved up just broke me. I swore never again would Petunia grace the threshhold of what normally looks like a major pet big box store.

And then I put it out of my mind.

This weekend, we hosted Easter for my parents and sister. Somewhere along the line, Petunia ate something she shouldn't have (we can be messy eaters, especially a certain redheaded someone who had a chocolate birthday cake with pink icing that can be seen from outer space) and commenced barfing last night. She's thrown up six times in the past 24 hours, all, of course, on the carpet.

This morning, I told Beloved I was going to do it: I was going to take her to a new vet.

With great apprehension, I stuffed her in her carrier and drove to the new vet. She gurgled the whole way there with unhappiness. I explained to the receptionist that she could morph from sweet baby girl into Satan's spawn in nanoseconds despite having no front claws and only three teeth. They took note.

Into the exam room we went. It had a window, and Petunia and I spent several minutes watching a robin try to brain itself against the glass for no apparent reason.

The vet walked in. I went over again with her that she might want to don a flak jacket. 

She opened the bag. 

She pulled out Petunia.

She palpitated Petunia's neck. She rubbed Petunia's belly.

Petunia meowed in annoyance.

She held Petunia and talked to me for like seven minutes and only at that point did Petunia hiss a tiny bit with impatience.

The vet told me she was going to take Petunia in the back and give her an anti-nausea shot after I mentioned I'd seen her sniffing at some chocolate cake crumbs before I could sweep them away. She told me she would not hurt Petunia but she would restrain her if needed, and then she took her into the back. I heard Petunia meowing and meowing, but none of the gutteral underworld yowls came from the back. There was also no hissing.

All the sudden, the vet was back putting Petunia in her carrier.

And it was over.

Now, does this mean Petunia won't grow to hate this vet, too? Jury's out. However, I'm absolutely kicking myself for allowing a wellness plan to keep me at the old vet for so long. Breaking up with a vet is like breaking up with a stylist, and when this new vet called the old vet to get Petunia's records faxed over, I felt a little like hiding under the steel table lest they see me through the phone.

As I type this, Petunia is winding around my ankles, begging for food, because she can't have anything to eat or drink for twelve hours, and I'm not going to give in because $57, an hour of my time and at least three cups of adrenaline are not going to be wasted just because she is temporarily thirsty and hungry.

This whole adventure just goes to show rule 1 of catdom: HOLD GRUDGES FOREVER.

Sorry, old vet. Petunia clearly just had your number.