Rock On, Little Cat, Rock On

Recently, it was time for my cats' annual vet check up. I have two cats, a grey one and a calico one, and the calico one is particularly spicy. She is a perfect, chonk-bodied, chaos machine, and the vet really highlights some of her louder qualities.

At the appointment, everything started out fine. She got out of the carrier, the vet and the vet tech oohed and ahhed at how pretty she was, and she jumped into the window and began to accept pets while she head butted a sign about heart worm medication.

Then the vet tech gave the vet the syringe with the rabies vaccine, and apparently, my cat, who gets vaccinated every year, decided that 2026 was the year she risked rabies. But as the human paying for this rapidly devolving vet experience, there was no way we were leaving prior to her getting the rabies shot.

Over the course of an hour, the vet, vet tech, and occasionally me, attempted to capture the calico and get her her two vaccinations. At one point the vet remarked, "She's very smart. She looks at me. Then she looks at my hand holding the syringe, and then she hisses at me. And she's got her head on a swivel for when [the vet tech] attempts to distract her."

Yes, for an hour, my highly tactical, twelve pound calico cat was able to outsmart three humans, one of whom studied animals so much she was a f'ing animal doctor. During the battle, my cat screamed, she jumped on stuff, she hissed, she swatted us with the speed of a professional boxer. Eventually the vet tech got a towel and elbow length leather gloves, and the calico was vaccinated.

When we got home, the calico proceeded to run around the house, not in panic, but in what I can only describe as true pride. She scarfed down all of her food, which usually lasts her to dinner (because fighting the overlords depletes calories) and even when she did finally lie down, hours later, she seemed unusually smug.

And the thing is, she lost. She got the shots, but she put up a hell of a fight.

I had just learned my rep had voted to keep funding ICE, even though I had called, and called, and called and told them I did not agree. The House had voted to remove protections on the Boundary Waters, even though I had called, and called, and called and told them I didn't want that.

My friend and I exchanged texts that we were "shocked" our reps went against what the public wanted. But we weren't shocked. We were saddened. And that sadness is always at risk of turning into something else. Apathy. Exhaustion. Acceptance.

And while I watched my twelve pound cat scream in protest at a pitch so horrible the front desk lady later confided in me, "I heard her, but I don't judge," I had to marvel at her absolute conviction she could win the fight. And then later, when we got home, she was so obviously proud of what she'd done. Even after we'd finally got the last bit of vaccine into her system, she did not cower. She fought her way out of the towel and squared off again.

And this is not a metaphor about the folly of people standing up to a force bigger than themselves. (Obviously, a metaphor about the powers that be insisting on a vaccine is not the 2026 vibe.) According to an internet search, cats and humans share approximately 90% of their genome. Apparently that remaining 10% grants me the privilege of doom scrolling, paying taxes, possessing opposable thumbs, working forty hours a week, while she, with the 90% of my genome I want to embrace, sleeps on various soft surfaces for about eighteen hours a day.

I live in that 10%, but really, there is a lesson in the 90%. Yes, she is a cat, and yes things much, much, much more horrible than her getting a rabies shot are happening, but none of that mattered to her. Rather, she clawed her way out of that towel and readied herself for another round. Watching her face back off against the vet, a single truth lit up the room. Her indomitable attitude wasn't an act. As long as she was awake and breathing, she would not give up.

And I guess that means, neither can we.