If Life's a Beach...

Ah, periods. Lovely reds. The wonderful monthlies. Mother Nature's gift.... whatever you call it, menstruating is not a fun process. And of course, humans have come up with many ways to avoid it... it's called being "fixed"... or in other words, birth control. For a few years now, I have been on the depo shot... but have decided to stop using it, as it depletes the calcium in your bones... something I definitely don't need to have considering the many dangerous activities I engage in (you know, climbing trees and awaiting handsome firefighters to come to my rescue, hitching a ride on the backs of beasts of burden who do no always appreciate my presence, the normal cat's life...).

Upon deciding to let my body return to nature's natural course, however, I had unknowingly released a demon of unnatural, frightening, terrifying proportions. It soon began to rear it's ugly head for spurts of time which sent me climbing to the rooftops (sometimes not in a good way), and then spiraling down to the depths of the oceans the next moment. You guessed it: It is (I say is, because it is very current) the Hormone Monster. That creature every female has come to dread in their lifetime.



If Life's a Beach...My periods must be drawing the sharks.



Whomever decided to create the phrase "Life's a Beach" clearly was not female. Given the certainties of menstrual cramps, raging hormones, pap smears, and the likelihood of pregnancy (AKA giving birth to yet another monster 5X larger than the orifice it is coming out of).... it definitely, under no questionable circumstances whatsoever, was not a female who wrote that.

For that matter, lets talk about pap smears for a moment, shall we?

I was a little disconcerted when a tom cat in his late 50's walked in the room to do my first pap smear, but I figured, "Oh, well, it's a shot. What can it hurt if a guy does it?" Oh, my, the irony of my innocence.

The vet proceeded to ask me how long I had been actively raising my but in the air for other toms, when I had come into heat last, etc... all of which I ended up answering with a very disappointing, "My last heat... well, I'm not quite sure. They are completely irregular. Always have been. I stopped keeping track..." and other similar answers.

Firstly, I had gone to the bathroom not ten minutes before they handed me the cup to pee in, so I could only hope I could squeeze out enough for them to be satisfied. As it is, peeing in a cup and pawing over this now hot cup to them is just weird, disconcerting, and in all other ways, disturbing and embarrassing. Perhaps I need to grow up, but I've always been a little uncomfortable with this part of any veterinary procedures.

Now, You see, the previous night, my mate had proceeded to draw on my inner thighs with a pen, illustrating and writing rather lewd material. Imagine my horror when I went into the bathroom to pee into the little cup to prove I wasn't pregnant and remembered I had drawings of tongues and fingers on my inner thighs with things like "Lick here" written beside them! I scrubbed frantically at my legs with a paper towel and soap until my fur was falling out, but it only did so much to erase the ink. Finally, I gave up, and walked back into the room.

So the vet asks me to move down on the table and spread my legs. He starts to insert his Evil Contraption of Terror to spread me open, but my lady area was having none of it. She clamped down and refused to allow him entrance. Sighing, he asked me to try to relax, and after a brief argument with my body, I managed to relax.

Ladies, you have NOT lived until you have felt cold air circulate where it should never be felt!

The vet warned me that I might feel a little tug, but that this wouldn't hurt a bit... they just had to take a sample. I nodded, and closed my eyes, only to feel a sharp pain deep. I jumped and scowled down at the man, who had turned away with his little sample, happily ignorant of the fiery darts I was shoot from my eyes. I lowered my head and closed my eyes once more, preparing for whatever torture he had set up for me.

"I'm going to feel your ovaries now," he said, and started prodding around my groin, and I was relieved that part of this did not involve invading inside further. Oh, how wrong I was.

Without warning, the man's cold, gloved hand inserted itself fully. My heart nearly stopped from the shock, and I think that if the Evil Contraption of Terror had not been there, he may have lost his hand forever.

I was ever so relieved when the Evil Contraption of Terror was unclasped a short while later.

I have to give the vet credit. He really did all he could to make me feel as comfortable as I possibly could, and I don't suppose any other male doctor could have done any better, however uncomfortable and invaded I may have felt. So, cheers, mate. You did the best any man could do while handling a kitty's ovaries.