Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

“Hmm.” Dr. Leona (after "Queen of Mean" hotelier Leona Helmsley) flicks back my eyelid so that all I see is her hairless hand before my eyes, then pulls my jaws open and leans forward to look at my teeth. "He is lucky that he was not picked up and sent for a three-day stay at the Hotel from Hell— the animal pound.”

My tail lashes while I weigh the benefits of sinking a fang into the vet’s disgusting, white nose so temptingly within reach. Miss Temple Bar would no doubt find such behavior, however much an act of self-defense, embarrassing, so I restrain myself. I permit myself a low, warning wail, however.

"Eight, maybe nine years old, I would say.” Dr. Imelda (after shoe-maven Marcos) narrows her eyes. "Nice heels," she adds approvingly, glancing at my erstwhile friend's feet. She presses my palm until my digits spread. “Nails could use clipping. You ever do that?"

"Only my own,” Miss Temple answers.

“Well." The vet sticks a cold hand under my nether parts and pulls me to a standing position. I have never been so humiliated in my life. “He will need all his shots, of course. and we could neuter him at the same time. Do you let him outside?”

“Actually, Louie lets himself out."

“Oh?”

"I leave a small bathroom window open. If I do not, he has been known to unlatch the French door to the patio.”

“Quite a talented scamp,” Dr. Natasha says with a feeble laugh that I do not like. “And he will have to go on the latest scientific formula diet, of course. The out-of-shape senior variety."

I twist angrily out of her grasp and berate her with a few choice words, which she ignores as if they were Urdu.

Miss Temple Barr forlornly strokes my head. “I do not want to overwhelm Louie,” she says with the wisdom and sensitivity I have come to expect from her superior sort of person. “Just the shots and the food today.”

“But if he wanders, you cannot want him impregnating all the female cats.”

"No, but maybe he has slowed down.”

Fat, excuse the expression, chance.

“I really advise you to fix him," Dr. Ruth suggests with a cheerful leer. “If he goes out, he might need his claws, but he certainly does not need his procreative powers with four out of five kittens born doomed to die within a year.”

"No...” Miss Temple is waffling.

I huddle, preparing to hurdle atop the cabinet. When the two shout for help in retrieving me, I will bound down atop the rescuer's head, and out the door before you can say "sold downriver.”