I don’t swear often. Honest. But I once apologized to a veterinary technician for my cat being such an “expletive” when I bring him in. Only I didn’t use the word “expletive.” She said, “Yes, it says that right here on his chart. He’s an expletive.” She didn’t use the word expletive either. And knowing my cat, I believed her about the chart. But then she laughed and showed it to me. There were no swear words on it. However the word “caution” was written across the top in big red letters. I wasn’t surprised. I half expected the chart to say, “One more infraction and this cat will be banned from the clinic forever.”

I’ve been worried about that since our visit a few years ago. The technician had come into the exam room smiling. She still liked her job then.

She asked if Sebastian was temperamental. I wasn’t sure temperamental quite described him, unless by temperamental she meant sweet and lovable to my husband and me and hateful to everybody else. So I hedged. “Maybe a little.” Then she asked if he’d do better with or without me present for the shots. I doubted it would make much difference, but I knew I’d do better without me there. So I said, “Definitely without me.”

She took the cat away in his carrier and I waited nervously, convinced she’d come back looking like she’d tripped and fallen into a paper shredder. She was back in five minutes unscathed. But she wasn’t smiling anymore. I asked casually how it went. She said diplomatically, “He’s… uh… temperamental.”

From then on, each time I took Sebastian in, I chose to let them take him away for his shots while I stayed back and prayed for all concerned. You can see why I have mixed feelings when I receive the annual notice telling me it’s time for his shots. Taking my cat to the veterinarian is traumatic for both of us—and for the staff too. But I’m always relieved they still haven’t banned us. This year my feelings were especially complicated since at our last visit we’d discussed having Sebastian’s teeth examined and cleaned the next time. He’s not at all conscientious about brushing and I’m sure as heck not going to do it.

I mix dental solution in his water daily and give him dental treats. But his breath was a little funky as anyone’s would be if they hadn’t brushed their teeth their entire life and occasionally drank out of the toilet.

I figured it would be easier to clean the teeth on a rabid raccoon. But they said cats are anesthetized before their teeth are examined. All cats. Not just mine. So there.

We arrived at the clinic, Sebastian meowing mournfully in his carrier like he was being carried to his execution. But when the technician arrived to take him away, he started growling like a grizzly bear. This is it, I thought. This is the last time they’re going to let us come here. He’ll live out his days with no shots and bad breath. I worried all day and not just about Sebastian. I pictured the staff limping around, covered in bandages. But everyone seemed fine when I arrived to pick him up— even the cat. Kidding. He definitely woke up on the wrong side of the cat carrier. I was happy to hear that he’d had a good checkup despite his lackadaisical approach to brushing and flossing. The technician did say one tooth would need to be watched. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On one hand that meant we’d have to go through this again. On the other hand, it almost sounded like an invitation to come back.