Funny Stuff

“I wrote this account of wrangling a cantankerous cat to the vet in the style of ‘cowboy poetry.’ It’s in loving memory of my late cat, Moonsie.” - L. Erixon

One morning, Moonsie came for chow but then wouldn’t eat. He pushed the kibble ’round as if it smelled like manky feet. He’d mauled his ear and it was clear, he’d really made it bleed. A sadder-looking specimen you likely never see’d.

We knew we’d have to load him up and take him to the vet. But shoving Moonsie in a cage ain’t a battle we’ve won yet. He squirms and growls, he bites and yowls and really makes a fuss. You’d swear he really hated each and every one of us. I’d sooner wrestle ’gators than an angry pussy cat. His eyes were blazing fire and his one good ear was flat against his head, and then I said, “Quit puttin’ up a fight! If you don’t soon cooperate, we’ll be here all blasted night!” We got him to Doc Baker’s place—the vet around these parts. He ain’t too much to look at, but he’s got a loving heart. For mama sows or calving cows, he gives them tender care. I carried Moonsie’s cage inside and set it on a chair. His ear was badly swollen and his face was puffy, too. The vet took one long look at him and knew just what to do. “I’ll freeze him up and scrape the guck from underneath that ear, then stitch it up real neat. I can do it. Don’t you fear. Let’s open up that cage so I can see that kitty cat. Awww, ain’t he cute? Just look at him. But, Lord, he’s got so fat!”

I moved too slow and then, oh, no, Doc opened up the cage! The air was filled with sudden, fierce and snarling feline rage. I tried my best to catch him then, and grabbed his scruff real tight. That psycho cat, he twisted free and disappeared from sight. We checked around, looked up and down, each cranny and each nook. But nowhere could we find that cat. The Devil must have took a-likin’ to ol’ Moonsie and he gave that cat his powers. We turned that clinic upside down and searched, I swear, for hours.

He’d disappeared and then I feared, we’d seen the last of him. Our chances of retrieving him were getting mighty slim. But then we thought his hungry gut might bring him back for chow. And later on, he ambled in and wanted kibble—now.

“The cat came back,” Doc Baker cracked. “And this time, I won’t miss.” Ol’ Moonsie never saw him there—no time to snarl or hiss. Doc put eight stitches in that ear, and then on top of that, he put a plastic lampshade round the neck of that poor cat.

“It has to stay in place today— ignore his little pout. I sure don’t want him ripping all my fancy stitching out.”

We started home and I tried my best to coax a little purr, but Moonsie hunkered in his cage, a sulking ball of fur. When I let him go, he swore real low, as only cats can swear, and sauntered slowly to the deck and jumped up in his chair. The stitches healed quite nicely and the lampshade hit the trash. The bill that Doctor Baker sent gave all of us a rash.

But Moonsie’s fine and bottom line, that’s all that matters. I think it’s time to kick on back and open up a beer. So, even though my story isn’t written very good, I’ve tried my best to tell it as a cowboy poet would, with lots of rhyme in double-time and dabs of humour, too. If I can write a cowboy poem, believe me—so can you!