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This morning, as I sorted the mail that came to the office over the weekend, I noticed that someone received a “Working Mother” magazine. Curious who would be receiving that magazine since no women here have small children, I looked at the label.

IT WAS ADDRESSED TO CELESTIA.

Now, I’m smart enough to know that this doesn’t mean she’s pregnant, but who the fuck does that? Who subscribes to a magazine like that and then has it sent to her office? Someone wants some attention. She is so insane that sometimes even I can’t believe the crazy that goes around in her brain.

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Saturday, I got to have more fun at the vet’s office with Ike. The worms were back, which meant Ike had a bunch of shit on him, and I had to get him back in the carrier and to the vet’s office. After the last ordeal, I decided to bite the bullet and let them do the cleaning this time, even if they had to sedate him.

The vet came in, looked at Ike, and then looked at his warning-filled chart, and said, “Take him out of the carrier for me.” Really? You’re the professional, AND you have a tech with you, and I have to take the cat out?

So I took him out of the carrier (which was not easy, since he’s almost the same size it is, and it even opens from the top) and put him on the table. He looked at me with the sad “how-could-you-do-this-to-me” look, and I started to cry. I am such a wuss when it comes to that cat at the vet. That sad look didn’t last for long, though, because the doctor grabbed his back leg, the tech covered him with towels, and the doctor gave him a shot.

He told me that I was done. I said Ike had poop all over his backside, and asked if I could leave him here for grooming.

“You know we’re going to have to sedate him, right? There’s no way we’re touching him without sedation.” So he sent the groomer and the front desk girl back to go over the charges.

When the groomer took one look at Ike, she seemed a little freaked out. Especially since Ike was hissing at her the whole time, but whatever. The receptionist was laughing (she knows Ike), because every time the groomer tried to go in to pet him, he would growl at her. We decided the best idea would be to sedate him right then, so that no one would have to try and handle him in the pissed off state he was in.

A tech came in (the same little Mexican guy that called Ike a “tigerrrrrrr” the first time I took him there), and said, “So what is he weigh, about 28 pounds?”

I was very insulted. “NO! He’s not even twenty pounds. He’s maybe eighteen pounds AT THE MOST.” So he put the scale on the exam table, and I put Ike on it. “Oh, fifteen pounds. What do you know?” No one ever believes me when I say he’s big-boned. (SHUTUP, HE IS.)

So they told me it would be $45 for the grooming, and $45 for the sedation. I didn’t want to spend a hundred dollars on this, but I didn’t want to go through the ordeal of the last time I tried to bath that fucker, so I agreed.

I left him there, and was about half-way home when my cell phone rang. I saw that it was the vet, and I assumed they were going to say something like, “Please come and get your psycho beast of a cat. He went crazy and ate the groomer.” But instead, I found out that he had ear mites (very BAD ear mites), and it was going to require intensive cleaning, medication, and since he was already sedated, they just wanted me to authorize the charges for them to fix that, too. This did not please me. Not one bit. But I obviously couldn’t say no, so I agreed.

When I went to pick him up, the same receptionist went back to get him. A few seconds later, I heard a loud screech, and then a hiss. Guess who that was? She opened the door, looked at me, and said, “Get back here.” Ike was so pissed off, that as soon as he SAW HER, he immediately began to growl, and tried to bite her. I tried to use my mom voice and calm him down, but nothing was working. He was mad. He was snapping and hissing at me, too. So I waited a few minutes, and he calmed down a little. Finally, it took the two of us, and about twenty minutes to get that stupid cat out of the cage and into his carrier to take him home.

Jesus.

When I got him home, I was laughing because he was super dopey, and couldn’t walk in a straight line to save his life.

Yesterday, I was working on the sock I’ve been knitting. I made a mistake trying to do the heel, so I had to rip back to the end of the cuff so I could try the heel again. I took the needle out, ripped the stitches, and got up to get a needle and some yarn (much easier to get through the tiny stitches). When I came back in the room a few minutes later, the was a line of yarn going from the couch (where I was sitting) to my bedroom, across the room, and under the bed. Ike never EVER messes with my yarn. He’s never really given a shit about my knitting. Yet, the fucker chose this day to play with it, have it get stuck in his goddamn claws, and run it back to my bedroom, ripping about five and a half inches of ribbing. I guess he showed me.

That asshole.