Three Yards of Drama

I have a bad feeling as I drag out a cat carrier and casually place it on the dining room table, hoping against hope to snare the older black cat without three yards of drama.  He has not been himself for the past few days and I know a checkup is warranted - at 12, he's no longer young - and I'm doing my best not to think about renal failure and the consequences.  All I manage to capture, however, is the kitten who hasn't the good sense to realize the implications of a carrier on the dining room table.  The adult cats scatter the moment they see it.  There's something to be said for age and experience.

I pretend that there's nothing out of the ordinary going on - this doesn't even fool the dogs - and when I'm ready to walk out the door, I nonchalantly scoop up the cat on my way and stuff him into the carrier.  As if to confirm my suspicions, he protests but only half-heartedly and he's unusually quiet on the drive to the clinic.
I'd prefer him yowling about this indignity and it worries me.  He maintains his silence when we arrive, glaring at the technician with a bravado I'm convinced he doesn't feel and it's at that moment when I realize that despite my optimistic assurances and determination not to worry, there's a place inside where I'm preparing myself to lose him.  It's not easy to leave.

The hunger strike lasts two days - through the confinement, the lab tests, the blood lettings, the unfamiliar surroundings - and the vet eventually calls to tell me I can bring him home.  Aside from an elevated white count, they've found nothing wrong except a suspected viral infection.  If he's glad to see me, he hides it well and sulks all the way home.  I try to match his attitude and pretend I was never worried.   

Once again, I've fretted uselessly and lost sleep unnecessarily.  As for the cat, by bedtime all is forgiven and at some point in the night I wake to find him peacefully sleeping, snug between my shoulder and the extra pillows.  I sleep better knowing he's home.