A Trip to the Vet

It’s for your own good

Image by Bill Adler

The moment I see the carrier, I sprint under the sofa, skidding like a baseball player sliding into home. I scamper to the far side, press against the wall, and pull my knees to my chest to make me difficult to grasp.

It won’t last; I know that. I can only buy time.

I anticipated this moment. For the past months, every time they tried to cut my nails, I shrieked and flailed, lacerating their thin skin in multiple places, my anger and fear manifesting strength I didn’t know I had. They could only cut two toenails and one fingernail on the past three attempts before deciding it wasn’t worth the pain and blood. 

My hands and feet are weapons. 

And yet, I won’t win today. Eventually, they’ll get me into the carrier. But if I make it difficult, they might skip the next time.

I hear the click-click of the carrier opening. They’re not going to give up, but neither am I.

Two long, green arms slide under the couch toward me. Six fingers beckon, but I’m not going willingly. A smiling three-eyed face peers at me. I bare my teeth, show my nails, and swipe.

The fight begins.

When I slash their flesh, I don’t hear them shriek because their vocal range is in the ultrasonic, but I get satisfaction watching them recoil. 

Like a fighter facing a bigger, stronger, more well-trained opponent in a cage match,  after a minute, I lose. They drag me out from under the couch. I release a final, withering howl. 

It takes two of them to force me into the carrier. One holds me around my waist while the other presses my arms and legs against my torso to squeeze me through the opening. Its grip on me slips, and my leg springs into a forty-five-degree angle. It pushes my leg back. I squirm. A few seconds later, I’m in the carrier. I’m defeated, emotionally and physically. I curl into a fetal position on the carrier’s padded floor. 

My keepers put a small container of what tastes like apple sauce in the carrier. I appreciate that. They’re really not so bad, and I suppose that the alternative of trying to survive alone outdoors would have been no alternative at all. 

I’m not the only person from Earth in this world. We tumbled through an uncharted wormhole, crash-landed on an alien planet, wandered through dry and dusty canyons, and nearly died of thirst, hunger, and exposure from the twin suns. We were found and captured—and if I’m honest, saved—followed by the first visit to the vet for a checkup filled with indignities, including orifices inspected, washed with an odiferous cleaner, skin pricked with multiple injections. And then taken to our forever homes.

My owners are two adults and one child. I call their species Binis for no particular reason. 

“How often do you go to the vet?” I ask one of the other humans in the vet’s waiting room.

The room smells mint-scented as if somebody recently sprayed an air freshener. 

“Every two months.”

“This is my second time,” another Earthling says, his accent sounding vaguely Russian.

“Once a year,” says a woman in her twenties inside the carrier on the far side of the room. She probably joined the Space Corps right out of college. 

“I hate the vet,” I add, “But it’s better than starving in the wilderness.” 

The door to the treatment room opens, and a high-pitched male voice cries out, “They neutered me!” 

My carrier rises. “Noooo!” I scream. 

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If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like my story, The Dawn of Dogs.

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