Well now. I may have to rethink this whole "evil vet" thing.
My evil vet is something of a hippie. He wears Birkenstocks (even in winter!) and is incredibly laid back about things. I had already decided he wasn't such a bad guy when he told Softie and the British One to ply me with delicious diced chicken way back in the winter, but now I think I might even like him a little bit.
The British One took me to visit the evil vet yesterday, and aside from having things put up my bum (which is not very pleasant, let me tell you) the evil vet seems to have set my tummy to rights and made me feel better. I was given some sort of injection, and he tried to give me a pill--which I'm pleased to say he did not suceed in doing--and then some vile meds were squirted into my mouth. But the vile meds didn't taste the same as the vile meds my old vet Dr.R used to prescribe. These tasted...not so bad. Not good, by any stretch, but not bad. I didn't foam and make a scene like I usually do when meds are squirted down my gullet, so I won't complain too much about the fact that I have to have the meds twice a day for the next week.
I am much brighter today, and feel so good that I have jumped into the large upstairs windows and watched the world go by. And I have watched the neighbors with the big deck. From this vantage point I can also see over the big wooden fence of the next door neighbors garden. Which means I can also see the evil Mooch pacing around like the crazed dog he is. He has no idea I am sitting there, so he has no idea that I can watch him sniff flowers and scratch at fleas. It's quite entertaining.
Yes, I'm beginning to suspect that my evil vet isn't really all that evil. I think he actually understands me.
I think I also understand him.
I think we are going to get along just fine.