Today our vet, Dr. Eckerman, had a big party to celebrate his 40th anniversary in practice. We weren't invited of course--only humans. Our mom went and said it was lovely.
Dr. E. has been taking care of us since we were small kittens. To tell the truth, we don't like him very much. He pokes and prods us--very demeaning for a cat. The vet is about the only place we go, so as soon as our mom puts the cat carrier in the car, Toby knows what's in store and he throws up.
As soon as Dr. E. touches him, Toby growls.
But he has taken good care of us, saved us from fleas and heartworms and infections and such. So we sent him a copy of our favorite book, Poetry for Cats.
And here's one of our favorite poems, written by John Donne's cat. We think it's especially appropriate:
Vet, Be Not Proud
Vet, be not proud though thou canst make cats die.
Thou livest but one life while we have nine,
And if our lives were half as bleak as thine,
We would not seek from thy cold grasp to fly.
We do not slave our daily bread to buy;
Our eyes are blind to gold and silver's shine;
We owe no debt, we pay no tax or fine;
We tremble not when creditors draw nigh.
The sickest animal that thou dost treat
Is weller than a man; in peace we dwell
And know not guilt or sin and fear not hell.
Poor vet, we live in heaven at thy feet.
But do not think that any cat will weep
When Thee a Higher Vet doth put to sleep.
Oh, dear, we don't really mean that. And by the way, if you'd like to read some more poems by famous cats, look up Poetry for Cats by Henry Beard.
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