It's not that I can't. It's that I don't want to.

Lucy and I managed our trip to the vet, though it was harrowing ("hare"-owing!) and neither one of us wants to repeat that experience anytime soon.

Last night, G was attempting a pep talk, and was going through the 400,000 steps of how to get her from her cage to her carrier. I held up my hand and said something along the lines of "I know I know I know! The problem is not that I don't know what to do. It's that I don't want to do any of it." Lucy nodded in agreement.

Getting her into her carrier and then wrangling everyone out the door took about 5 hours. Which is approximately how long we waited to see the vet - this isn't her usual one who coos and coddles her.

Yes. I REALLY am this stylish. No autographs, please.

We both sat and seethed, thinking about G at work, leisurely twiddling his thumbs or something, all zippedy-doo-dah.  Must be nice.

When we finally got called back to the exam room, I was trying to tell the sweet tech girl how anti social Lucy is, and she was busy unzipping the carrier, trying to get her to hop out. I may or may not have yelled, "STOP! RIGHT NOW, STOP! WE'LL NEVER GET HER BACK IN IF SHE HOPS OUT." The poor woman looked traumatized and I had to explain exactly how long it would take an entire team to wrangle Lucy back into that thing. And also that I would not be paying for any of it.

These amateurs, gaw!

She got it.

An hour later, Lucy and I needed a drink.

And some food.

Then we went home, double fisted the Ibuprofen, and took a nap.