Years ago, I adopted a little black cat. She was a big lover but did not come declawed and, at the time, did not suffer fools nor enjoy being held by anyone but me and my then-boyfriend.

We took her to a vet’s office to have a checkup that involved having blood drawn, getting some vaccines, and the like. It was our first time going to this vet as we were new to the area.

Our first impressions weren’t great. The vet himself kept calling my clearly female cat a boy, no matter how many times we corrected him. There was also a vet tech who, from the first second we met her, clearly didn’t want to be there and made it everyone else’s problem.

Finally, toward the end of the intake visit where we were going to leave the cat and come back after everything was done, the vet tech opened the carrier and took my cat out, picking her up to hold her.

Me: “Hey, uh, she doesn’t like to be held. I would put her down if I were—”

Tech: “Oh, nonsense! She’s such a sweet little baby.”

The sweet little baby in question was still in shock about where she was, but I could see that was wearing off.

Me: “No, seriously, she’s not declawed, and you’re going to want to put her down.”

Tech: *Snapping* “It’s fine! I handle cats all day; I know what I’m doing!”

My boyfriend and I made eye contact and shared a quiet conversation, and then he just shrugged. “Let her learn,” that look said. So, we headed out to run errands and would come back to get the cat in an hour.

No sooner had we left and gotten two blocks away than I got a call from the vet office.

Me: “Hello?”

Vet: *Sounding a little shaken* “So, umm… Kitty did not like being held, and Kitty did not like getting her blood drawn… I think to proceed we will need to look into sedation options.”

I could clearly hear the vet tech cursing in pain in the background.

Me: *Pauses* How safe is it, and how much will it cost?

The vet gave me all the information about the sedative.

Vet: “…and we’ll discount it.”

We really needed the vaccinations to keep her registered legally in the city, so we gave the go-ahead.

After our errands, we came back to a vet tech with plenty of deep, bandaged gouges taken out of her chest and shoulder who wouldn’t meet our eyes, a vet who advised that the cat was maybe feral, and a very, very high kitty.

We never went back, and my cat has never had another incident at a vet’s office in the seven years since, mostly because all the other vets and techs listen to us.

When my husband was little, he got a cat called Willow. By the time I came into the picture, Willow was about ten years old. She was the most wonderful cat. She was chill, rarely scratched, and was happiest sitting purring on people’s shoulders. This demeanor changed rapidly when the vet came into view for her annual check-up.

During one such visit a few years after we got together, we found out Willow had a lump and it needed to be tested. 

I went to pick her up in the afternoon after her test in the morning. When I arrived, I told the receptionist that I was there to collect Willow. She looked over her glasses at me like a disapproving teacher.

Receptionist: “Oh, you’re Willow’s owner.”

Slowly, more and more staff congregated at the back of the reception area whilst I could hear angry yowling getting closer. Willow, the culprit of said yowling, was popped in front of me in her carrier and immediately calmed down and started purring.

The staff looked incredulous. As I was paying the final bill:

Receptionist: “Your cat has scratched everyone in this clinic, including one vet who has never been scratched before in twenty years of practice. We had to give her triple the amount of sedative for a cat of her size as she, by sheer will, stayed awake.”

I obviously apologised and took Willow home. Thankfully for us and the vets, her tests were all clear!

I work at an animal clinic that doubles as a kennel. We board dogs and cats. A younger woman whose dogs have recently been boarded walks in, absolutely SCREAMING.

Customer: “My dog started having diarrhea when they got home! You’ve poisoned them!”

Me: “Ma’am, sometimes this can happen when a dog is left in a place they don’t recognize. It’s called stress diarrhea.”

Customer: “That’s impossible! My dogs are immune to diarrhea!”

No one is up front except her and me, so I reply:

Me: “Oh, really? Your dogs are immune to diarrhea? That’s incredible. Perhaps you should breed them!”

She then threw a slew of profanities in my direction and then stormed out the door. I haven’t seen her since.

I’m a young adult still living with my family. A very fat cat starts hanging about in our garden. We name her Bacon Sandwich, a reference to the British TV show, The Young Ones. We shoo her out of our garage, and the next thing we know, she’s given birth to four kittens in the garden next door; the house there is currently empty. So, this stray and her babies are now our responsibility. We feed the mum, and eventually, all five of them once the kittens are weaned. We name the kittens Rick, Neil, Mike, and Vyvyan, after the four Young Ones. The names are given randomly, but Vyvyan — named after the destructive punk character — got the right name.

After discussion, we decide that we will look after the young ones, so we find a new home for Bacon Sandwich (who hopefully got a better name, too) and call the vet about the four kittens, who enjoy pats but are semi-feral. We explain the situation, and the vet offers us a very good deal on neutering all four, which are of unknown gender. This is called TNR — trap, neuter, and release.

We drive to the vet and buy four cardboard cat transport boxes. These are wild cats we are going to feed, not pets, so we don’t expect to take them to the vet again, hence the single-use boxes. We wrestle all four cats into their boxes, and three sit noisily, but Vyvyan’s paw shoots out the air hole and claws out, and she has ripped through the cardboard in seconds!

We make a second trip to the vet to purchase the plastic version of the same cat box; this one proves strong enough to hold her.

The veterinary service knows the history of the cats, and we tell them about Vyvyan’s escape. We know she’s a punk — she once hopped over the fence, we heard wild yapping from the dog next door, and she returned a moment later with the dog’s ball in her mouth, and she dropped it and never looked at it again — but she has never hurt any of us or showed us any aggression.

The vet never told us what happened at her appointment. All I know is that they asked us to never bring Vyvyan back. I took a sneaky peak at her medical records, and they described her as a “naughty kitty”.

As vets put up with a lot of trouble, I think she must have really hurt one of them. I was afraid to ask!

I had a cat a while back who was suddenly not well. We took him to the emergency vet, who performed surgery. They told us they’d need to keep him for a few days.

A day or so later, we got a call.

Vet’s Office: “Please come pick [Cat] up.”

Me: “I thought he needed to stay another day or two.”

Vet’s Office: “No, it’s time.”

When I went back to get him, he was in one of the usual cages along the wall, one that was fairly high up. That’s when they told me the real story.

[Cat] was not eating his food; they didn’t know that he only likes dry food and hated the canned they had. They kept trying but thought that he was just too sick or something. When the vet tech came to care for him, he hit the edge of the bowl and managed to splatter the food all over her.

She thought, “Poor thing, he’s having trouble controlling his muscles,” and gave him extra love.

An hour or two later, he had a fresh bowl of food, and the tech opened his cage. He swatted the bowl just so and, yep, all over her.  

And that’s when they called me to take him home… where he got his kibble.