Funny Vet

It’s been around for a lot longer than most people will admit.  One of those secrets that people keep in the dark, keep hidden, not wanting to suffer the shame or embarrassment of being discovered.  Yet, the way to healing is to first admit you have a problem and to drag your shameful addiction into the light!  Some of you already know what I’m talking about.  Yes, you do.  Those who don’t  will be tempted to look away, but I urge you not to!  I am, of course, talking about……..cat spanking.

The problem has gained recent attention and notoriety due to the revelations made by videos of Senator Anthony Morris ( R - Ohio) and his cat, “Diana”.  The videos were obtained by KittyLeaks from an anonymous source, though due to the angle and shakiness of the footage, “Bosco”, the family Dachshund, has long been suspected.  Ironically, Senator Morris, was the primary contributor to the controversial Anti-Spanking bill which set guidelines for criminal charges, from misdemeanors to felonies, on parents who spank their children.  At a press conference, Senator Morris expressed regret and remorse and was stepping down while he pursued psychiatric treatment and counseling.

Dr. Jerome Sylvester, noted psychiatrist and professor at Kansas State University, is one of the few who have studied this form of mental disorder.  “It is like any other addiction.  It is a continuum.  A lot of people pet their cats in what society deems a “normal” way.  Some progress into heavy petting, finding “zones” where the cat’s response is exaggerated such as the base of the tail or along their tender, tender lips.  The next thing you know, little “Gazpacho” is wearing fetish gear and using a safe word, or safe “meow” if you will.”

The first suggestion of cat spanking in history belongs to another politician, President James Garfield (1831-1881).  Though he was known as a great philanthropist for animal causes, especially cats, there are some suggestive references in letters from contemporaries of his time that there might have been a darker motive behind his interests.  Though historians argue that there is no conclusive proof of such nefarious deeds, the rumors of such were the basis of coining the phrase “scuttlebutt”.  Harry Chapin’s 1974 song has long been thought to be an ode to a generational tradition of cat spanking, that even though the father and son grew apart, they still shared this one common thread.  Proponents cite the fact that the verse “You know I’m gonna be like him” is always followed by the chorus “Cat’s in the cradle with the silver spoon”, an obvious reference to the practice, and that when the father and son get together they know they’ll “have a good time then”.  Even T.S. Eliot was felt to slyly reveal his own predilections in his famous cat character “Rumpleteazer”.

There are a lot of cultural differences in the attitudes toward cat spanking.  Egypt still holds the strictest laws with cutting off of the hand used for spanking.  Japan remains the most permissive culture and even extols the virtues of cat spanking in their Anime series Neko Tataku.  The United States has remained conflicted in its legal response to what goes on within a private individual’s home.  PETA spokesperson, Felix Messmer, had this to say by phone interview, “It is a non-consensual act forced on a defenseless feline.  Spankers will say that the cats seem to “enjoy” it, a typical abuser’s rationalization.  Spanker-apologists will say that it is almost always done with an open hand and will also point out that no harm has ever been reported from this foul practice.  As if cats can speak!  We speak for the cats!  Why do you think there’s an “ow” in “meow”?  They’re crying out for help!  PETA guidelines state that proper petting is defined as exerting no more than 2.3 pounds per square inch along the grain of the fur.  Anything else is abuse!”
Dr. Bob Bigglesworth, head of the AVMA's Human-Animal Bond program stated, "This is not what we had in mind.  At all!"

One need look no further than YouTube to see the prevalence of this problem.  Thousands of videos are uploaded and viewed with dismaying frequency of cats being spanked.  Current CEO of YouTube, Figaro Jingles, states that since there is no law defining, much less prohibiting, cat spanking, it has been difficult for their company to qualify what is acceptable for users to post.  “It’s not like pornography,” Mr. Jingles explained, “It’s not necessarily a “I know it when I see it” type of thing.  And, trust me, I see a lot of pornography.  We have guidelines in those situations.  However, we are concerned with what people post and with viewers' perceptions.  We take all complaints seriously.  At a minimum, we try our best to confirm that the cats in the videos are adults and are at least wearing collars and therefore not completely naked.”

During our day-to-day activities we use a lot of short-hand things to simplify our lives - acronyms, abbreviations, etc.  We do this when writing in files when taking histories or putting down our diagnositic findings.  Some computer programs, for instance, may only allow you a certain number of characters to input in the problem line when making appointments.  If an owner is going on and on with description after exhaustive description of what’s wrong with the pet, we may, perhaps, end up putting just ADR (ain’t doin’ right) or NDR (not doin' right - what I’ve been told is the northern version of ADR).  The person writing or inputting such short-cuts know what they’re trying to say, and why, yet others reading the entries later may interpret a completely different slant.  These are some of the file entries that I’ve come across over time and what my brain thought when I saw them.

Rash on skin not acting right - Well, yeah.  Rashes, by definition, aren’t supposed to act right.  They’re…….rash.  How do you expect it to act?

Typos can be fun as well.  While still working on this blog an appointment was made to "Check Sin".  There's seven differentials for that: Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, Envy, Lust, Wrath, and Dopey.  One last thing.  We use a lot of acronyms in this profession, both for describing diseases and as file entry short-hand.  There’s one I’d like for us to get away from and that one is this: FU.  It’s supposed to mean Follow-Up, but, ya know, when you see it, that’s not the first thing that pops into your head.  The first time I was exposed to this particular bit of short-hand it was on a sticky note stuck to a chart: FU Dr. Scott.  What’d I do?

It was the dog days of summer and after a great weekend I was feeling pretty good about myself, having partied ‘til the cows came home the night before.  Thinking the goose hung high and being as happy as a pig in slop, I was naturally surprised to hear a catfight break out in our treatment room.  I hurried like a bat out of hell to take the bull by its horns.  Two of my technicians were going at it like cats and dogs.  The bone of contention ended up being trivial, whether to fold the cage towels in half or in thirds.  I knew the real elephant in the room was that one of my technicians was known to drink like a fish, but that particular monkey on her back had never affected her work, so I had always let sleeping dogs lie.  There’s always some kind of pecking order when you have staff and the other workers seemed to keep trying to make her a scapegoat, being catty about small things.
“Holy cow!,” I said, “Don’t we have bigger fish to fry?  Now get off your high horses and get back to work!”
I knew yelling would put me in the doghouse with the staff for the rest of the day, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.  It turned out not much later that we were running around like chickens with our heads cut off because it got suddenly busy.  Mr. Dail had arrived without an appointment as usual, just to get our goat.  He always seemed to have a burr under his saddle but his bark was worse than his bite.  I talked turkey with him for a bit and in only two shakes of a lamb’s tail I was able to get him to hold his horses so that I could see Mrs. Schitty who had brought along some of her Schitty children.  It was chaotic in the room, the children monkeying around with some of the equipment, Mrs. Schitty as calm as a toad in the sun, abdicating any parental responsibilities.  It seemed her cat, Doofus, was as sick as a dog.  I recommended bloodwork but she thought that was hogwash and while I can be bullheaded, I knew I was barking up the wrong tree because she was as stubborn as a mule.  After all, you can lead a client to treatment but you cannot make them think.  I ended up giving some antibiotics that cost chicken feed, hoping I had not used up one of Doofus’ nine lives.  The Schitty children raged through our lobby like bulls in a china shop.
The rest of the morning was like herding cats and by lunch I was as hungry as a bear.  I made a pig out of myself and felt as full as a tick.  Feeling as happy as a clam at high tide I soon learned I’d counted my chicks too soon.  Seems Mr. Bullafarht had tried another home remedy on his dog and the chickens had come home to roost.  This was really the straw that broke the camel’s back though because Meatball was one sick puppy, looking like something the cat had dragged in.  I told Mr. Bullafarht he had no horse sense but this went over like water off a duck’s back.  I didn’t want Meatball to be a dead duck, so we made a beeline to intensive care so he wouldn’t sing his swan song.  Our afternoon went to the dogs and was so packed there wasn’t room to swing a cat (not that we would actually do that).  Feeling like we had a bear by the tail,  we did a lion’s share of work, hoping this day would be a cash cow.  By the end of the day I could tell I was no longer a spring chicken and was feeling meaner than a junkyard dog.  We sent Meatball to the local emergency clinic with Mr. Bullafarht who tried to throw me a bone and said he’d never do this to his dog again.  As much as I liked kicking a dead horse, I let this go.  He cried crocodile tears and left with his tail between his legs, but I knew that a leopard doesn’t change its spots and his judgment was as scarce as hen’s teeth.  “Ass.”, I thought.
At the end of the day we all left the clinic like rats from a sinking ship.  It was raining cats and dogs and was as dark as the inside of a cow’s belly.  I got to looking like a drowned rat as I fumbled with my car key that was suddenly as slippery as an eel.  I took a dog leg left then went straight as a crow flies to where a little bird had told me that I could get drunk as a skunk on days like this when I felt I’d been thrown to the wolves.  After all, tomorrow would be here as quick as a rabbit and I’d have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so I could keep feathering my nest.