Feline Psychology (or "I Have a Cunning Plan!")

I have to take the cats to the vet tomorrow. They're overdue for their annual checkup and shots. I hate taking my cats to the vet, because as soon as they see the pet carriers come out, they completely freak. (Especially Nova who is, frankly, a great big coward.) I suppose it's hard to blame them, really. The only place they ever go in the carriers is the vet's office, and while these annual visits really aren't all that bad -- the vets are always gentle, and the worst thing that happens is a tiny needle prick that's over in about two seconds -- it must be difficult, when you're a cat, not to think of the vet's office as "that place where they cut off my balls/ripped out my uterus." And that's gotta be something that impresses itself indeliably on your little kitty memory. I really shouldn't be too surprised if, at the sight of the cat carrier, Nova dives for the safety of under the bed as if all the Vacuum Cleaners of Hell were after him, or the normally gentle and placid Happiness suddenly turns into the Whirling Claws of Death. It's probably the feline equivilant of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It's still a pain in the ass, though. Not to mention the exposed forearms. So this time, I have adopted a psychological strategy. I got the cat carriers out of the closet two days ago and put them in the living room, where they've been sitting looking perfectly innocuous for long enough that the cats have clearly decided they're not going to attack. Tomorrow morning, before their scheduled appointment, I'm going to go and open the doors on the things, and, with any luck, irrepressible feline curiosity will cause the kitties to immediately go, "Ooh! A new space I can crawl into! Let's check it out!" At which point, I will slam the doors shut behind them and cackle like a Bond villian who's just snared Our Hero in the death trap.

We'll see how well this actually works in practice...