Gibbs took his annual trip to the vet on Monday.
He hates the carrier and car rides, so I imagined the thought from his handsome face as we drove home from the place of disrepute.
“This is such bullshit.“
Gibbs is a healthy boy. He weighs the same as last year, 12.4 pounds. His color-changing left eye is functioning properly, but we keep watch of it. He had his rabies and distemper shots, and bloodwork was submitted to the lab as a normal check with elderly cats to ensure nothing unseen is going on with him. Similar to his weight, Gibbs is 12.5 years old. That’s 63 in human years, which is the same age as his human slave. He sleeps far more than I do, but he can leap tall cat trees and run a lot faster after a chipmunk. I don’t jump or run like Gibbs, but perhaps I could beat him to the corner on my bike. That’s if I could get him to leave the comfort of his napping place.
I’m not telling Gibbs that he’ll be going back in the next month or two for teeth cleaning because I’m afraid of what he might think next. “Bitch” comes to mind, but we’ll cross that bridge when it’s in front of us. Until then, Gibbs and I will continue on in the confines and comfort of home, with vocal kitty demands, soft purrs, and good health.
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