That title falls to Banky, the little black cat who gives this home just the right amount of attitude (and makes me really popular with the Witches!).
Named after the character Jason Lee played in “Chasing Amy”, Banky has been my beloved purr ball since I lived in California. My California Kitty has adjusted to life in Maine quite well, and often is right here next to me when I write my blog post. In fact, he just jumped up onto the couch to join me.
I wanted to write about Banklyn McFranklin (his more formal name, which he prefers me to use when I mention him on the blog) tonight because I had to call the vet about him today, and those are always anxious and amusing times.
You see, Banky (who is now purring and rubbing his head against the side of the laptop to make sure you know he is participating in the writing of this story) might look like an innocent, harmless black cat, but anyone who’s spent any time around Witches knows that black cats are never quite what they seem.
Banklyn hasn’t been himself lately, but I can’t take him to the vet. When we lived in California, he so terrorized the veterinarians and their staff that they asked us to just call in with questions when he wasn’t feeling well. If his problems persisted and they couldn’t convince us to go to the animal hospital, they then drew straws, with the loser putting on body armor to meet with my ferocious feline.
Yes, the King of The House on the Hill has quite the reputation, Modern Philosophers. If taken to see the vet, he will shriek, howl, hiss, bite, claw, scratch, and essentially act like a cat possessed to ensure that a stranger never touches him or tries to administer any sort of medical attention. You’ve got a better chance of getting a blood sample from a stone than you do of getting it from my cat.
You can imagine my dilemma when I noticed he wasn’t feeling well. I wanted to take him to the vet, but I could not unleash that fury on some poor, helpful Mainer in a lab coat. Plus, Banky is getting up there in years, and I worried that the trauma of taking him to “that place” might leave him worse off than he was now.
So I decided to use my gift with words to terrify the staff at the vet clinic into handing over medicine without having to see King Banky. Unfortunately, the woman who answered the phone was not a fan of this plan. She insisted that I bring Bankster in for an appointment. While I was angry at this stranger for not going along with my plan, I didn’t want to see her scratched up and bloody, so I asked to speak to the vet.
Luckily, my storytelling skills had improved by the time the doc returned my call. After I had finished describing Bankyln’s behavior at previous vet visits, he asked, “Are you sure Banky is a cat and not a cougar?”
I assured the nice man with the sense of humor that he really didn’t want to meet the terror to see for himself.
The vet agreed to give me meds and special food as long as I promised to bring King Banky, Lord of Chaos and Bloodletting, to the office should his condition not improve.
Somehow, I was able to get my uncooperative kitty to swallow both a pill and the liquid meds (he spit out some of that on the table, but I’m going to take it as a victory for the human race). To my delight, he devoured the wet food and has been purring up a storm since I’ve returned to The House on the Hill.
Sorry this wasn’t the usual tale of silliness about life in Maine, but sometimes, a Modern Philosopher has to write about his little black cat. If you’ve got a problem with that, I’ll tell Banky you’re a veterinarian, and then you’ll know what it’s like to really have a problem…