Cone of Shame

Mom took a kitty to the vet and came home with a clear plastic…thing.  She called me over to change my diaper.  My shirt is soaked, and the diaper stinks, and mom says there are now three holes draining.  She tells me that I’ve made it worse with all my licking, and unfortunately, I have to have a “cone”, and that the vet can’t see me until Monday.

That’s what that plastic thing was.  It snaps around my head and makes me look like I’m from outer space, according to my boys.  I don’t know where outer space is, but I’m guessing we can’t get there by truck.

I really don’t like this cone.

To show how much I dislike it, I have gone on strike.  I’m on the couch, and I refuse to get up.  I will out-stubborn them.  Even dinner isn’t worth this humiliation.

 

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