Neutered

posted on march 25, 2003, tag: me

I expected the place to be nicer. Walking down 50th Street a few minutes before, I was starting to feel quite comfortable with the area and confident with the quality of architecture and people I saw walking on the street. Hell, even the pigeons seemed courteous—stepping to the left, allowing me to pass without the fluttering of filthy wings—and the smell was nice too. On the way over (only two blocks), I passed a lovely Medical Office. I assumed the place would be along the same lines. Cheery. It would be the opposite of other animal hospitals. The animals would all be free—no cages—and walking around casually, meowing or chirping or, if inclined, drinking tea and eating biscuits.

Then I saw the West Side Animal Hospital across a busy Ninth Avenue. It was not what I had been hoping for. In fact, it looked like a damned converted pizza place. My expectations suddenly changed, and I imagined myself walking into stalagmites and stalactites, animals being lashed and doing heavy manual labor whist being forced to drink Shasta and RC Cola.

The lady buzzed me in. It wasn't that bad. It was quiet, actually. Seemed alright. I requested my two cats and was told that Felix, "the black one," was a real pain in the ass. He managed to scratch the "living hell" out of the Vet's arms. Good for him, I thought, if someone tried to cut my testicles off I would do the same. I gave a half-smile and waited patiently for the cat carrier to arrive from the back room, crammed full of two very unhappy cats. Oscar, "the gray one with the funky tail," had apparently been really nice but did not want to be put back in the carrier with Felix. "He's pissed off," the lady kept saying. Do you remember what you just did to them? I kept thinking. I was told not to feed them until tomorrow. That's a long time without food. Over 36 hours. Could I handle that? I don't know. Does having your testicles removed make you more hungry or less hungry? I hope I never find out.

They were silent on the subway home, much like they had been in the morning. I got them home and opened the cage. I tried to fill the room with lots of It's okay and See, we're home!, but I knew they weren't going to like me for a bit. It didn't last long, though, and soon they were lying on the couch, following us with their eyes—their sleepy, filmy, drugged-up eyes—and accepting of petting and kissing.

Now I think the medication and experience has caught up with them. They've been sleeping for the past few hours. When they awake, randomly, their glossy eyes attempt to focus on whatever it was that stirred them. But it doesn't last. Their secondary eye lids creep up, followed by their furry outer lids. And then, quickly, they are fast asleep once more. They'll probably be up and running around in no time. Especially in the middle of the night.

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