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TIFU by giving my cat a ride

Today, my angel of a fiance agreed to help me get my cat to his vet appointment. Toby (cat, not fiance) is 15 years old and instantly cranky whenever the thought of travel farther than bed-to-couch is broached, so you can imagine his opinion of road trips.

Usually on the 10 minute car ride to the vet, Toby regales us with his favorite performance art piece: reading the Riot Act in several languages while pooping and, more impressively, throwing up, all at the same time. His attitude does not improve upon arrival at the vet, nor is it assuaged by their means of obtaining his vitals. Toby's reputation is such that last time we were in, the doc gave us a sedative to give before his appointment.

Now, years ago, my late wife and I bought him a fancy Kickstarter travel bag; soft walls, plenty of ventilation, and even a pouch mechanism wherein we could reach in and pet him during the trip! In the ensuing years, we've lined said fluffy palace with unwanted towels o'plenty, in order to make quick cleanup of his artistic offerings.

This time, perhaps because of foolhardiness due to the sedative, or because I'm getting old and forgetful, the towels are omitted. The sedatives work, in that he is far easier to pack up, and is not his usual, vocal self. They do not work in that Toby still gives us a silent rendition of "Do Not Want: A Protest Piece." Normally, this would be fine, except see above re: soft-sided carrier with no towels. After his appointment, the poor vets bag up his carrier in a Hefty Industrial trash bag, and give us their loaner carrier, the ye olde hard plastic variety. No worries.

Car ride home is fine. No repeat performances, just a cat trying to figure out why he feels so angry about everything and, yet, so unenthusiastic about doing anything about it. (I miss drugs sometimes.)

We get home, me with cat in the passenger seat. I get out, and place Toby on the hood of the car, so I can turn and get the other bag from the back, forgetting that he is not in his schwanky, rubber-footed, pliable soft palace, but in a hard-plastic case with slippy, flat bottoms. Toby shifts his weight in confusion and disgust, and I turn around just in time to see the carrier not slide, but *roll* off the front of the car like a barrel over Niagara Falls. Luckily for this story, I get to the landing zone two seconds before Toby figures out the hinges came loose and that he can run (stumble?) to freedom. We get into the apartment, and I'll stress Toby is uninjured. He has even joined me in the living room as I write this, which is usually a sign of grudging detente after our little veterinary adventures.

TLDR: Gave my cat drugs and discussed his future as a performance artist versus a promising career in Cirque du Soleil.

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