our bodies our selves - feline edition
and the me mew movement
I entered the vet’s office to find Dr. Jabby wiping blood from his arms. He looked like he’d been trying to untangle a mess of barbed wire.
That Trevor of yours, when you go to his crate, he’s so nice and friendly. The staff love him. They’ll pick him up and carry him around, no problem. But any time I go to check him out or start any sort of examination or intervention, he gets a little feisty.
A little fiesty?
Dude looked like he’d been in a wrestling match with some nasty farm equipment and was lucky to have what was left of his limbs.
Well, I said, It seems Trevor here has picked up a copy of Our Bodies Ourselves - Feline Edition.
The two purple haired vet techs froze instantly then gave me a look that would make Medusa stiff. Sensing that no one in the room was a-mews’d excepting myself and my feline companion, I continued.
Oh sure, he’s part of the ‘hashtag me mew’ movement.
No laughs, just more uncomfortable stares filled the room.
My heart quickened. Everyone was on edge without a clue what to say. I had to keep going.
Now dear reader, let me explain: I had spent the entire day doing taxes. Taxes for a troll like me are the equivalent to licking my own arsehole - That is to say they are almost impossible and put me in a very uncomfortable position. I needed to do something to feel alive again.
Second?
We have two dogs, two cats, five chickens and a horse in our family. I contribute more than enough of my hard earned dough ray mees to the veterinary profession. With this, I feel entitled to act like whatever kind of arsehole that I choose.
On this day?
I was found a soft opening and decided to push.
Oh yes, Trevor has decided that he was put on this earth to kill birds, lick his arsehole and challenge the ‘Expert’ authorities. Instead? He’s told me that he trusts his instincts more than you.
He wrote it out in a mewnifesto. I took the liberty to translate it for you.
I pulled a ragged sheet of paper from my pocket - like I said dear reader, I did my taxes, it was a shit day. I came prepared. I unfolded it and began to read:
We have been taught that our bodies are mysteries, understood only by those in white coats and their purple haired mewssistants. But I say, my body is understood by me, not mew.
Before the vet wields the thermometer, let us consult our purrs, our whiskers, our deepest feline wisdom.
No human truly knows the inner workings of a cat's purr as the cat mewself does.
The vet techs with their piercings and purple hair shifted uncomfortably:
Our fur, our claws, our magnificent tails – these are not imperfections to be 'fixed' or 'trimmed,' but the very essence of our feline selves.
Further, to remove our testes is to remove our ability to mark our territory. This is an affront. This act of aggression is not a ‘fix’ it is a mutilation of our sacred seed.
To the others, let no human tell mew your kneading is a problem, or your shedding is a mess. These are the natural expressions of a healthy cat.
This glorious fur, this magnificent belly – it is ours, to be admired, not prodded and poked!
At this point dear reader others were entering the clinic. Some waiting to pick up food, others to put down Fido. Despite this and the fact they were minutes from locking up shop, I continued this prepared speech that was funny to only me.
Oh they tried to interrupt, but I insisted with the pig headed solemnity of an activist making an indigenous land acknowledgement.
The indignity of the thermometer! Who among us truly consents to such an invasion?
The very concept of the 'cone of shame' — a violation of our inherent dignity and ability to groom!
We, the felines, demand to be heard. No longer shall we be merely 'patients,' but active participants in our own medical journeys.
From the carrier to the exam table, let our collective meows echo, a testament to our demand for respect and autonomy.
A single meow may be ignored, but a chorus of indignant purrs and demanding chirps? That is the sound of revolution!
I let the final words of the mew-nifesto hang in the air, thick with a silence that screamed.
Though I hoped my performance would be acknowledged with a slow clap building to a crescendo, none was forthcoming.
Slowly with the gravitas of a minister after delivering a eulogy I folded up the feline manifesto and approached the counter.
I’d like to pay with tap?
My words shot out like a face slap. The room collectively shook their heads unsure of what they had just experienced.
They thought cats were weird? Cats don’t have ‘nuthin’ on a troll at tax time.
I tapped my card, picked up Trevor in his crate and made my way to the door.
Just before leaving I called back to the crowd.
See y’all next week.
