Hi! Mr. Monte here. – – Look at me. Anyone can see that I’m a perfectly adorable, huggable, captivatingly beautiful specimen of a pure bred, registered Maine Coon cat. There are no two ways about it – to see me is to love me.

So, what is it with my vet?

How is it that I, the fascinating, pacific creature you see here, could be so quickly transformed into the fanged, snarling monster you see in the featured picture? There is but one answer that fully explains how this Jekyll and Hyde display could come about.

My vet is unfortunately yet undeniably a “dog person”. This malady, this genetic defect,  resides deep within his DNA, and it will eventually be his undoing. It influences his emotions and is evident in his human odors – he wreaks of “dog”. Subconsciously, he fears me, the quintessential alpha cat. He, like the canine beasts he so loves, is overly domesticated and can only tremble and quake with fear when my untameable majesty graces his presence.

He tries to counter and overcome his weakness, his fear, by inflicting pain and using any number of tactics of intimidation to humiliate the exalted feline species which he is incapable of understanding. Perhaps I can best illustrate this behavior by briefly recapping my visit to his office this week.

Early on the day in question, I had held court. My dutiful and sometimes loyal subjects, Blondie and Old Fuzz Face, had groomed me, played with me, fed me, and obligingly discharged their duties as they rightly should. It is unfortunate but true that they are bound by human laws requiring that pets be immunized against certain diseases. I have often heard them say that, if it were in their power, I would never have to undergo the savage rituals that take place at the veterinary clinic. Yet, they are compelled to transport me to the clinic and turn me over to the hands of dog-loving practitioners of the dark arts.

So it was that day. I was brought into the “torture chamber” and unceremoniously pulled from the safety and protection of my carrier and immediately thrust onto the “scales”. I could see the thumb of the clinic technician resting on the scale as it registered 19.09 pounds. – – I knew then that the game was rigged against me and there would be no justice delivered today.

During the dreadfully long waiting period, I gazed about the torture chamber. Every wall contained ridiculous pictures of dogs, with the bones and innards open for all to see. Some of the innards were crawling with heart worms and hook worms and other ghastly parasites. Yet, in all the pictures, the dumb dogs were smiling and slobbering as they are wont to do.

Then, the vet timidly made his entrance. Inwardly, I smiled – I could see his fear was already showing – he remembered me. He asked Old Fuzz Face to hold me while he performed his examination. He made quite a show of rubbing my abdomen. I knew what he was up to. That is when my transformation began – I hissed at him and bared my teeth. Fuzz Face fully understood what was going on. He suggested, somewhat facetiously, that now, while my mouth was open, it would be a good time to check my teeth. The vet, not catching the humor, did just that – my teeth were fine.

The vet said, to no one’s great surprise, that I was trending towards overweight. He went so far as to say that I had “no waist”. He then recommended a curtailment of my rations. There it was. Body shaming – “no waist”, indeed! For that remark I responded with both a hiss and a growl.

Next came the injection. Dr. Dog-man, as I now refer to him, called upon an assistant. Once again, it became clear – there was fear in the air – he needed help. The first attempt was an utter failure. Even with Fuzz Face, Dr. Dog-man, and his assistant holding me, I was able to throw off their restraints and slashed menacingly with my right paw. The vet and the assistant retreated to a safe distance. Having established my utter and complete dominance, I allowed them to inject me. – – They knew who was the real winner of this round.

In the aftermath, while the assistant was scurrying out to safety, the vet suggested, recommended, urged, and repeatedly asked Fuzz Face and Blondie to strongly consider “drugging” me with a medication to decrease anxiety two hours before my next visit. He, of course, would be more than willing to write up the prescription immediately.

Blondie and Fuzz Face could see that I was truly the master of the moment. They, however, feared for the emotional and physical well being of the entire clinic staff, so they reluctantly accepted the prescribed tablets. They said they would administer one prior to the next visit.

I fully understood what was said. I have my strategy prepared. For those of you who have ever attempted to give a cat a pill, you know that even though it looks like it has been swallowed, it often shows up days later under a chair or couch.

My next round with Dr. Dog-man comes in two weeks. Watch the local papers to find out what can happen to a body-shaming, dog-loving vet when confronted by a quintessential alpha cat.