Jay Leno Called — He Wants My Cat’s Chin Back
So, we went camping over the weekend — you know, trying to unplug, relax, and maybe not smell like responsibility for 48 hours. But before we even left, we noticed something off in the garage. About 30 — yes, thirty — little puddles of cat puke.
Now, one or two hairball heaves? Normal. Thirty? That’s either a feline exorcism or someone’s digestive system waving the white flag.
Here’s the thing:
A) I didn’t know which cat did it.
B) One of our cats, Harlie, is basically feral. Catching her takes an act of God. (I’d say an act of Congress, but those asshats can’t manage a damn thing except laundering money and pretending it’s “aid.”)
Anyway, fast forward to yesterday. I spot Harlie through the window, and holy mother of whiskers — she’s got a massivelump on her chin. It’s new. It wasn’t there before we left for camping. You can’t miss that huge bitch. Like, Jay Leno called and wants his jawline back big. Poor girl wanted to eat but couldn’t because this hard-as-a-rock mass was sticking out so far she looked like she lost a boxing match.
Mike got home, and we did the ol’ tactical capture. We’re talking Mission: Impawsible level teamwork. We get her, load her up, and we’re getting ready to head to the ER… when she pulled a full-on “fuckkkkkk you!” and darted through a crack in the garage door like a furry Houdini.
So yeah, the vet trip got delayed.
This morning, round two. We finally got her and took her to the vet — yes, that vet. The same office I talked smack about months ago because of their creepy little AI note-taking system. Listen, I’m not down with that AI nonsense. I don’t cooperate with government data collection — period. Nothing is ever deleted, don’t let them fool you. Traveling with me is a nightmare because I won’t do digital ID, no one’s scanning me, and you sure as hell aren’t taking my photo. Ev.ery.thing. is data collection. So… yeah. Fuck you, no.
BUT — my vet. My beautiful, amazing, compassionate vet. I love her. Worth swallowing my digital paranoia for.
And yes, I dropped the F-bomb about ten times before asking her if AI was transcribing it. (Spoiler: it was.) She actually turned it off so we could have a real, human conversation. I could’ve hugged her right there….again. I get the intention behind it — streamline notes, efficiency, whatever — but I come from the government. I know how that sausage is made.
Anyway, she examines Harlie’s chin and at first thinks it might be cancer. My heart sank. Then she squeezed with her nails, and a little pus came out. She put it on a slide, came back, and said it’s inflammation — for reasons unknown. So, no cancer that we know of, thank God. Harlie got an antibiotic shot and a “wait and see” order.
That chin, though… holy shit. If I had that thing on my face, I wouldn’t leave the house.
So, the moral of the story?
My vet’s still amazing.
I’m still an asshole.
And Harlie currently has a chin that could headline a late-night talk show.
Prayers for my girl, please. She’s a wild one, but she’s ours — Jay Leno jaw and all. 🐾💥
