A Visit With Dr. Doolittle

Trinket is not at all pleased to be confined to the cat carrier again so soon, but is reasonably subdued with a handful of cat treats.

After a short time in the waiting room, I am led to an exam room where I am greeted at first by a very friendly tech -- and then later by a not so friendly Dr. Tyson.

Dr. Tyson is a trim, starched and pressed, hairless man (not even a hairy knuckle to speak of) with absolutely no discernible sense of humor.

He asks why we, Trinket and I, are here this evening. (And frankly, I am questioning my decision myself.)

I tell him the story of the bat - again omitting the parts about the beer, and the gun, and the trash can and the running all over screaming like a two year old swatting aimlessly at nothing with a broom.

Dr. Tyson is not amused in the slightest, natch. I may as well have just told him about having played in traffic with my children.

He begins to artfully whittle away at my confidence as a pet owner and parent.

"Are we up to date on our vaccinations?" 

Well I don't know about you, sir, since we've just met, but I can tell you that I am probably due for a tetanus shot, and plan to get a flu shot and PPD at work, but Trinket is a big question mark where shots are concerned. 

I tell him about Googling and the lack of intel from the state where Trinket was vaccinated initially, and how I was under the impression that her shot was good for three years, but really don't know for sure, and soon I am rambling like a teenager that just broke curfew and got caught.

"Well, what you read was wrong. No one has a three year vaccine.  That site is rubbish.

Rubbish?  Does anyone say that on this side of The Pond? 

While I make a mental note to tell Scott that his dogs may be on the fast track to rabies, Dr. Tyson continues with his smack down. 

"When did this little episode with the bat take place?"

"Friday night," I say. And then add, "At about 6 pm." As if it matters.

He looks up, staring at nothing. Evidently, counting the days. "That was 4 days ago. Why are you just bringing her now?" He's kind of wincing.

Stammering, I reply that I'd been away, that I wasn't sure that the bat had bitten Trinket, that there was definitely contact since she had picked the darn thing cleanly out of mid-air and had pounced, and there were some wounds on her, but I had I guess assumed they had come from all the under-the-bed-and-throughout-the-house chasing and so on and so on not really making a legitimate excuse.

He continues talking while he feels Trinket's neck. He notes that there are "scabby wounds and a scratch" in a tone that suggests that I am a complete moron for not racing to the vet on Friday night, immediately post bat slaying. And NOW look where we are!

"So let's have a look at the bat."

Game. Set. Match.