So, there are more than a few cats on our farm. Like around thirteen.
To be honest, there might be fourteen, but I'm pretty sure Spitz is a wraith and only blinks in and out of this dimension at will. That "cat" is a story for another day.
Anyway, back to the thirteen. Yes, that's a lot of cats. However, I live on a pretty large farm that's adjacent to a very large chunk of state land, so it's not like there's not room for that many cats.
Also, I have more than a few outbuildings full of cozy alcoves for our feline friends. Weirdly enough though, nine of them seem to think that chilling in the house with us is the way to live.
I mean, it is winter after all.
Until last summer I only had six cats, but being the sucker that I am, took in a couple of pregnant females and ended up with my bigger number because of course we fell in love with and had to keep a few of the kittens.
Sigh.
And as I feel like thirteen cats is more than enough felines to help keep the vermin population in check, I have been spending a lot of time this winter taking my kittens to the vet. That's right, it's spay and neuter season.
Last week it was Pork's turn to head to non-reproductive land. Pork is my daughter's kitten and is definitely a bit on the unique side. For instance, when we gave him his kitten shots, the dude just hung there like a languishing noodle. We all started laughing because most animals aren't super fond of getting shots, Pork just didn't seem to care.
And that lackadaisical attitude of his really earned him a ton of admirers at the vet. When it was his time to get the snip, he and I arrived at the vet's office ten miles from the farm early in the morning. As I was grabbing my chill bud out of the back seat, I suddenly felt something smash into my leg with the combined force of all molossus breed dogs to ever exist.
Melded to my leg, just above my snow boot, was the smashed snout of an Old English Bulldog. Good thing over breeding has done it's magic on the breed's jawline, I'm pretty sure the dude was trying to bite me, he just couldn't.
LOUIS! NO! a creature of a padded from enjoying too many of the American Diet delights hollered from around the back of my filthy blue car.
"I'm so sorry, I thought I had this locked." Louis's handler cried.
"It's no worries," I replied, my mirth barely in check. Apparently the bulldog's mother forgot to lock his retractable leash.
"Hey big fella," I said with a giggle as I looked down at the ball of wrinkly butter that was trying to savage my right leg, "That's not really working for ya, is it?"
Louis paused and looked up at me, his nostrils gurgling like a dying manatee as he sucked in self-righteous air.
"SNurgleBarf!" he replied before trying to smash his nose into my leg again, only to be interrupted by his handler attempting to drag him away.
Pork had stayed quiet during the entire exchange. I looked into the cat carrier and into his green eyes, "I agree, Louis doesn't have a lot of manners."
Pork and I went inside to check in. He chilled in his carrier, quiet yet alert. Whereas Louis, well, he reminded me a bit of Veruca Salt mixed with every naughty child you've ever seen at a restaurant all rolled into one.
Really, at this point I could compose a song called, Louis NO! because I have heard the phrase uttered in every tone. One time Louis ran up to me again and tried his luck with my other leg. The sad groan he emitted when his owner strained to drag his 44lb bulk away caused me no small amount of mirth, I had to look away.
Finally, they got Louis and his owner into a waiting room and Pork and I into another. After Pork got his temperature taken and such, I was sitting with him in my lap, waiting for the vet to come in. He was a little disconcerted being away from the farm in a strange place, but he was also happy to be getting scratchies, so there was purring.
Our peaceful waiting was marred by a sudden shout next door, "Well REALLY, Louis!"
Apparently Louis had tried to bite his owner.
The vet entered the waiting room in that moment and I gave Pork a goodbye pet. One of my Beeflings (4-H market beef kids I used to lead) is a vet tech at our vet, so I knew Pork was in good hands.
And later, when I picked him up after his procedure, I got another set of smiles. Sadly, Louis the Wonder Dog wasn't there, but all the vet techs rushed me asking if Pork was my cat. When I said yes, they all gushed about how awesome he was. Apparently as soon as he came out of under anesthesia, he had been very entertaining. Our goofy cat was rolling around and soliciting pets by being a very big, cuddly goofball.
But then again, I already knew that about him.
And now, as it has been a little over a week since he was fixed, not a day goes by that I am not giggling at some Pork antic. Out of all of the kittens he is the most derpy of the bunch. One minute he's laying in your lap holding your hand with your paw, the next he's full zoomies and slapping the back of your head while you try to play the Division 2. It's never dull round here.
And as most of the time, all of the images in this post were taken on the author's full of more cat pictures than one should ever admit too iPhone.