There are a lot of jobs I’d be too afraid to do: lion tamer, smokejumper, elementary school teacher. Last week I was reminded to add veterinarian and veterinary technician to the list. I’ll spare you the unpleasant details and just say my cat had an ailment involving his backside and parts leading up to it.

His name is Sebastian but that doesn’t roll off the tongue so mostly we just call him Kitty. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t come anyway.   

A cat person once told us that Sebastian/Kitty is probably a Maine coon mix. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she hinted that the other part might be rabid bobcat. My husband and I get to see the Maine coon part. Everyone else, including our veterinarian and his staff, only sees the bobcat part. 

You can’t just put a leash on a rabid bobcat and walk him into the clinic—or anywhere else, for that matter—so if we were going to take him in, we were going to have to put him into the carrier first. This is always a bit like sticking your hands into a working blender, no matter how sick he is.

Fortunately, my husband and I have a strategy: I always hold the carrier while he stuffs 11 pounds of fur and blender blades into it. It seems like a fair arrangement to me.

I drove to the clinic with my scared kitty howling mournfully beside me. But as usual, the howl became a growl once we were inside. If the carrier weren’t so small, everyone in the waiting room would have thought my bobcat was a large, unfriendly rottweiler. 

I’d done nothing but hold the carrier and drive to the clinic but I was exhausted. Pet people will understand. The pet-less won’t, but they all stopped reading at the first mention of the backside of my cat anyway.

I knew what I’d suffered paled in comparison to what the veterinary staff would now face. I always feel the need to warn them but that’s not really necessary. They’ve met my rottweiler—and made a note in his chart.

Even so, neither the veterinarian nor the technician seemed worried. The vet said they’d administer a mild sedative if it was necessary to do the exam. I was sure it would be necessary. 

They took the carrier away and I paced and prayed for all involved. I can’t think of anything scarier than examining the backend of a rabid rottweiler except maybe examining the front end.

I fully expected them to return looking like they’d just done battle with a paper shredder. But they both looked fine. They informed me that they’d managed to do the exam and perform a variety of other diagnostic tests including drawing blood without the rottweiler drawing any.

I realized again that theirs are jobs I could never do, especially when they told me they’d also managed to perform a particular treatment to the backend of the rottweiler. And they did it all without the benefit of a sedative.

I was amazed at their skill and courage but also a little disappointed. I’d been thinking what was coming next might be easier if Kitty were sedated. For one thing, after this particular illness, he needed a bath. He’d also need medicine twice a day for seven days.

It’s a brave soul who force feeds medicine to a rottweiler or a rabid bobcat or even a Maine coon. And it’s a really brave soul who gives him a bath. Luckily my husband is a really brave soul. Incidentally, he once had one of those jobs I told you I’d be too afraid to do. Yup. He was a lion tamer. Oh, wait. I meant an elementary school teacher.

Dorothy Rosby is the author of “I Used to Think I Was Not That Bad and Then I Got to Know Me Better” and other books. Contact her at www.dorothyrosby.com/contact.