Itzl is the only one of my critters who has never quoted the Bhagavad Gita, performed summoning rituals for Chthulu, transformed into a 100th level demon, or expanded the vocabularies of small children in inappropriate ways.
He has, however, lolcatted a few times.
I know, that's almost as terrible as quoting Melville.
I had a kitty once, named Catmatyx Catastrofix the Curious called Calumph, who was the nemesis of every vet in town. We got the little tuxedo kitten in trade for a bag of home grown tomatoes.
He seemed a sweet enough kitty, small, furry, playful. He kept his claws sheathed most of the time when playing with us.
But take him to the vet and he was a completely different critter. He became the distilled essence of CAT, so concentrated just one drop could remake the universe. He was primordial and one look into his eyes was enough to reduce experienced veterinarians to fetal fearfulness.
We didn't know this the first time we took him to the vet to have an abscess lanced and drained - before he was old enough for his first kitty shots.
The poor vet. He didn't know, either.
This tiny furball weighing no more than ounces shut down his practice for the afternoon as the aids, in quivering terror, quietly shooed all his patients out and locked the doors behind them. All the vet did, honest, was take him out of my hands and carry him in back to weigh him so they could measure out the right dose of antibiotics once his abscess was lanced.
Catmatyx was barely out of sight when this low, ratchety sound started that vibrated the door and window. It quickly escalated into the cat version of "Now I am become Shiva, the Shatterer of Worlds!" and then every critter in the back office began howling, barking, yowling, squalling, and cages rattled.
The vet came back in the little examining room with him. As soon as Catmatyx saw me, he leaped from the vet's arms into mine, then settled down in the bend of my elbow, licking one paw as cute as you please. The sounds in back died down quickly. The vet stared, shook himself, then said, "I think he weighs about 10 ounces. We're not - ah - sure because he wouldn't stay still."
Then he discussed anesthesia with me. I agreed to a topical anesthetic, but felt full anesthesia would be too difficult for him to handle. By this point, Catmatyx was batting at the bells I was holding for him, using his "soft paws" (claws in) and being extremely cute.
The abscess was on the back of his neck, and the vet needed to shave a portion of hair there so they could clean it well and I could take care of it at home. I offered to hold Catmatyx while they did this, but he said he had interns and aids trained in handling cats and it would be less traumatic for both me and Catmatyx as well as faster if they did it.
While we were talking, I heard the sounds of large objects being moved quickly, and doors opening and closing.
So, once again the vet took Catmatyx, purring happily, through the door.
Once again, there was that ratcheting sound that vibrated the door and windows.
I heard an electric razor buzzing under that ratchet sound, and then a full throated roar that would have cowed a full grown lion, followed by a series of hissing spits that no doubt translated as "Ia! Ia! Cthulu fthagn!". Bodies thumped against the door and someone back there screamed so shrilly I couldn't tell if it was the vet or one of the aids.
There was some shouting going on and some heavy furniture fell over. There was a loud metallic crash, and then total silence as you heard a metal platter roll around its rim as it spun down, just like in the cartoons.
And then, into that silence, I heard this huge cat (tiger? sabertooth?) mrrraaour loudly in what could only be that cat saying, "From Hell's heart I stab at thee!"
The vet never did come back.
An aid with blood spatters on her lab coat carried him in.
Every hair on his little body was on end and not touching, an amazing feat considering how dense his coat was. He saw me, and there was this plaintive little, "mo-o-o-o-o-om", and suddenly he was in my arms, his teeny head buried between my elbow and waist, his tail all bottle-brushed out. There was a bald spot on the back of his neck with a wet little wound in the middle of a bump, oozing some yellow pus.
The aid stood near the door, her hand on the knob. "It'll ooze for a few days. The vet left some medicine and instructions on the check-in counter for you. Don't worry about paying today, we'll send you the bill."
Catmatyx calmed down as soon as she left the room. I walked into the empty waiting room and saw a tube of ointment and a vial of pills on the counter on a piece of paper. Sure enough, Catmatyx's meds and instructions and a follow-up appointment with a notation that said, "You don't have to bring him back if it's healing well." At the bottom, the vet had scrawled, "Better luck treating him." Shouldn't he have said, "good luck" in stead of "better luck"?
I leaned over the counter to call out to ask a question, and then decided against it. Through the door, I could just see an overturned table with stuff spilled on the linoleum floor, syringes and bowls scattered, and not one single cage. When we brought the dogs in, there were rows of filled cages back there, and I'd sometimes see some of the critters being treated. That was odd.
When I got home, I called my then husband to tell him Catmatyx was all done and had a poor little bald spot.
Everything went well. Catmatyx's abscess healed cleanly and his fur grew back as thick and soft as ever. We didn't have to take him back to the vet for a follow-up.
We took him to the pound for his vaccinations because it was cheaper than the vet's. It's what we did with all the critters - the pound for cheap vaccinations, the vet for everything else. He behaved at the pound like the gentle little charmer we loved.
Over the next few weeks, we heard rumors of what happened at the vet's office on the other side of the examining room door. They must have been exaggerating. Catmatyx was a cute teeny kitten. There's no way he could have wreaked the havoc and invoked the fear rumors attributed to him.
And then it was time to get Catmatyx neutered.
We took him to the same vet clinic, in walking distance from the house, but our usual vet wasn't there. It was his new partner, a young man fresh out of vet school from Stillwater.
I don't know how many of y'all know Stillwater, OK, but when folks say "podunk", they mean someplace like Stillwater. It's a college town, but it practically shuts down at 9:00 p.m., except Game Nights. It's quiet, and rural, and chasing skunks in a pick-up is considered an exciting time.
We were still convinced Catmatyx was a sweet kitty. He was gentle, and he purred a lot, and he was growing into a gorgeous cat. He never strayed across a street, staying inside the block we lived on. Back in those days (30 years ago), there was a lot less traffic, and it wasn't so dangerous for kitties to roam outdoors. Our neighbors adored him, and the elderly woman living behind us kept telling us how she loved rocking on her back porch with him curled up in her lap.
After this visit, we knew there was a whole other side to Catmatyx.
Oh sure, it started out normal enough. Catmatyx had grown to weigh about 7 pounds - the vet let me go back with him to weigh him, and let me hold him when he was given his tranquilizer in preparation for the anesthesia.
I laid Catmatyx in the holding cage until the vet was ready to neuter him and left to work.
Everything was fine.
Until I got a phone call at work.
The aid sounded breathless as she said, "The vet wants to know if your cat has ever had an idiosyncratic reaction to tranquilizers before?"
He'd never been tranked, so I couldn't answer her question. It was very noisy, dogs barking, cats yowling, but it was that way last time, too, remember?
Not 20 minutes later, I get another call from the vet. "Ummm, does your cat have a problem with dogs?"
No, we had 2 mutts in the backyard, and the neighbors had yellow labs.
She sounded kind of unsure and worried as she said, "Umm, OK then." It was noisier than last time, they must have been really busy. I appreciated her taking time to call over such little things. They were taking really good care of Catmatyx.
An hour later, I get a frantic call from the vet's, "Could you come get your cat? NOW?"
I asked if he was finished and out from anesthesia and she practically shouted, "Of course he is! Can't you hear him!?"
I heard a cat, roaring and carrying on, but that cat was way louder than Catmatyx had ever been. He was a soft-meowed kitty, sweet little squeaks and purrs, but mostly he was becoming quietly dignified, as befitted a cat wearing a tux. That wasn't Catmatyx.
Was it?
So, I arranged to get off work and go fetch the silly little thing.
I could hear the animals out in the parking lot with the car windows rolled up, and it only got louder as I entered the building. The windows were bulging from the sound.
Winding over it and through it all was this - awesome - wailing that raised the small hairs on the back of my neck. Perhaps "wailing" is too weak a word - it was the sound you heard around a flickering fire with dancing figures silhouetted against the night sky and you knew, as your intestines knotted inside you, that here was the foundation of the rituals that summoned chthonic gods. The rising and falling vowel sound was the root sound of every grimoire's secret chants. Uriel, Ramie, Imimi, Eimar, Leiru. That was one awesome cat. I had goosebumps.
The aid took me straight back. "We're all afraid of your cat," she said.
My cat? Surely not.
There he was, crouched at the front of his cage, tail tip twitching. He opened his mouth, saw me, and the teeniest little "mo-o-o-om" came out. The dog three cages over stopped barking and was panting. My little kitty turned to look at him, and he started frantically yowling and jumping against the bars of his cage - as far from Catmatyx as he could get.
As I looked around, I noticed all the caged animals were as far from Catmatyx as they could get, and desperately trying to get further away.
I opened the cage door, and heard the aid behind me gasp.
Catmatyx raised up pitifully for me to pick him up, and head-butted my hand.
The aid backed away carefully, keeping her distance.
I mentioned how long it usually took dogs to be fixed, and the aid confided that it usually took cats that long, too, but Catmatyx was an exception.
I paid for him and was getting in my car when the new vet came outside. "Um, that's some cat you have."
"Yeah, isn't he a sweetie?"
"That's the last thing I'd say. He resisted the tranquilizer, and he riled up every animal in the building. You heard it in there. You hear anything now?"
He was right - it had gotten quiet.
"But look at him - he's such a gentleman!"
"Apparently only for you. He should still be sleeping off the anesthesia, but here he is - wide awake and alert, ready to rip my head off if I move the wrong way." And he proved it by moving closer.
Catmatyx rose in my arms, a low growl coming from the depths of hell and out of his mouth. In cat-speak, he was saying, "There will be blood."
I looked at Catmatyx in shock. He knew language I'd never taught him.
Fortunately for veterinarians around town, Catmatyx lived a long healthy life and didn't need vet care beyond simple vaccinations.