So Dad has to go to the dentist yesterday. You shoulda heard him moan about it. He hates going there, but he chipped a front tooth, so it was either get it fixed, or take up playing the banjo out on the front porch. We don’t have a front porch, or a banjo, so the choice was easy.
The tooth still isn’t fixed. They poked around on it, took an x-ray, and told him to come back in two weeks. I think the guy didn’t know what to do with it and wants to read over his notes from ACME School of Teeth Fixin’. But, nobody asked me. Now, Dad says his lip hurts and he don’t feel like writing. Man, he has it really rough.
Personally, I don’t feel a bit bad for him. He made his own appointment, drove himself there, and was able to tell them exactly what the problem was. Once a year, Dad throws my ass in a prison box and hauls me over to see Dr. Krista. This happens totally without warning, and I can’t do a thing about it. First, the humiliation begins with making me sit on something called a scale, then she says I hafta keep eating that OM stuff. grrrrr. But she’s just getting started. She pokes around on me, shines lights in my eyes and ears, and sticks cold things in where stuff is only supposed to come out! With all her diplomas and crap on the wall, you’d think she’d know that is a one-way steet! I’m gonna look at them more closely next time I’m there. Bet one of ’em says ACME School of Cat Repair. I can’t be too hard on her, though. She did save my life about ten years ago when I had something called Chylothorax. It’s rare, and she was the only one to figure it out and get it fixed, so she’s pretty cool.
Can’t be too hard on ol’ Dad, either. He did put a picture of me on here the other day. That’s my disgusted look, which is kinda permanent. I learned it in the ACME School of Cat-itude.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN, everybody! If I trick-or-treat at your house, throw in a can of tuna ’cause I can’t have chocolate. And don’t give me that cheap kind. I prefer albacore. I can’t reach high enough to soap your windows, but I can do something rude on your screen door, so you’ve been warned.
Kiwi out. 
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