It's nine o'clock on a Saturday .... the regular crowd shuffles in. There's an old man sitting next to me holding an ugly old tomcat named Gin.

The things you think to amuse yourself when you're making an emergency trip to the vet. Happy Saturday, you guise! I've only been up for an hour or so and I've already had an adventure with needles, shedding, and a rectal thermometer. In other news, I can probably forget about dogs for a while because our questionably domestic cat has decided to break.

Again.



Sh*tty K*tty has a 2% chance of ever suffering another urinary tract blockage because his urinary tract is man-made. Perineal ureothroscopy? Check. He can, apparently, still get UTIs like a mothafuckin' champ.

The plant is just starting to recover from his last round of drama. There's a new branch peeking out of the dirt; I thought he was just being an asshole and trying to destroy all things green. It is his way. (It's not like he ever acts sick. He spent forty-five minutes last night chasing his tail, which results in crazy somersaults all over our living space.)

Your cat wasn't being a dick, he was flashing the Bat Pee Signal. Now who's the asshole?

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Goodbye, fluffy little shelter dog. You were a nice idea while you lasted.