The British One took me to the not-quite-evil hippie vet the other day. I've decided to elevate his status to evil hippie vet now, because when I was there he put nasty drops in my ears and then attempted to stick things into them! Oh, he said it was to "clean them" but I know better—I know what he really wanted to do was make me uncomfortable and agitated.
Well he certainly succeeded. Had I not been held down by the British One and an assistant, I would have leapt from the examination table and bit him right on the ankles! Instead, I morphed into melt-down kitty and yowled, cried, resisted mightily and panted with my tongue hanging out—like a common dog. It was very undignified and embarrassing.
Since returning home my humans have taken turns trying to put drops in my ears, and I don't like it one little bit. It's a good thing I have very strong ear muscles, because whenever I think they are up to no good, I close my ears up tight and they struggle to get the drops in. But the whole episode has made me a very unhappy boy indeed, and I no longer want to delve into my delicious diced chicken, and I don't want to go outside to enjoy the warm sunshine and gentle breezes. I only want to mope on the sofa.
I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. The Summerland calls to me a little louder each day. One day soon, the pull will be too strong for me to resist.