Or at least I feel like one after subjecting my poor kitty to the vet.
The guilt started pretty early, actually. I went to fetch him for the trip and he was SO HAPPY that I wanted to pick him up and cuddle him - until he saw that he had to go in his crate.
Cats are great at sulking.
He handled the car ride well, with a minimum of sobbing and howling from the back of the car. I kept the noise at bay by singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" repeatedly - what can I say, I get weird earworms. The vet was easy to find, despite the concerns of the receptionist I spoke with earlier, who seemed deeply concerned that I would be lost and gave me detailed directions in a nearly-incomprehensible southern accent.
I was impressed with myself from the beginning, due to my voice recognition skills. I had pegged the heavily-accented receptionist on the phone as 50-something, bleached-blonde, heavily permed. The perm wasn't as heavy as expected, but otherwise I was dead on. The place itself was pretty run down and smelled primarily of medicine and cat urine, but the people were super nice. They thronged Bruce immediately to admire his eyes and praise his bravery for only causing a small ruckus.
Once in the exam room, the vet himself turned out to be great, as was the assistant. They fussed over Bruce a great deal and got everything done very quickly with a minimum of drama. Bruce was a coward, of course, but he didn't disgrace himself. He handled the rectal thermometer with his dignity intact, and only hissed once when they looked at his teeth. During the actual vaccinations he covered himself with glory by not crying once.
Now he's all tuckered out.
Now I just have to look forward to my own appointment tomorrow. I doubt I'll have to get any shots, but I'm betting the rectal thermometer is nothing compared to what these monsters do to pregnant women.