It was when Dash vomited a mass the size of a baby camel that I decided I should take him to the vet. Thankfully, my black American short hair is equipped with two features not mentioned at the animal shelter when, five years ago, I decided a cat might fill the void left by the aloof 18-year-old boy who had left my home to start university.

The first is what I have come to call the Barf Alarm. I have only heard the Barf Alarm a few times but when I have it has been consistent. About two minutes before stomach expulsion, Dash emits a piano forte yowl that would wake a banshee and have it complaining about the noise. For symphony orchestra conductors wanting to beef up their woodwinds section, I can recommend Dash’s Barf Alarm as one capable of ascending the harmonic minor scale at Largo tempo, enough time for a violinist to change a string, a cat owner to understand the animal is about to puke, and a cat to high tail it to the perfect spot for puking.

The second feature can only be called a gift from God, and it is Dash’s preference that the perfect spot be a flat, cool, and smooth surface, Mercifully, this disqualifies carpets, bedspreads, furniture, and cashmere sweaters left out to dry.

On this day, I found him in the upstairs hallway, crouched over the hardwood and in violent spasms. A minute later, the baby camel was on the floor and Dash was sitting up, flicking his tail, licking his chops, and eyeing me with an air of, “Well, that feels better. Glad I don’t have to clean it up.”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” I thought trying to ignore the fact that my cat had expelled twice his body weight. “He might be okay.”

Then, Dash sneezed.

I went for the paper towels, wash cloth, and garbage bag, remembering that Dash had been sneezing all week and the day before I had caught him hugging the bottom of the suitcase I was packing so he could threaten it with dry heaves. Now this. My spirits sank as I realized with horror the truth of the situation. I would have to take Dash to the vet.

My goal for vet visits is once a year, for Dash’s mandatory rabies and flu shots. Remembering that we have a vet appointment the next day inspires a feeling of dread akin to remembering that I have a multi-leg discount-airline work trip with tight connections the next day. I plan wake up times, mealtimes, travel times, and wrestling with Dash times. I plan the latest I can let Dash outside and still be confident he will return in time to be chased, cornered, and seized. I plan where to place the carrier so I can get him into it with a minimum amount of wrestling, hissing, and scratching.

Something dramatic must happen for me to change the vet schedule. Scooping the last of Dash’s expulsion into the kitchen catcher I begrudgingly allowed that this might constitute dramatic.

An hour later, after crossing the parking lot with a carrier that was now bouncing and swaying like a bag holding an octopus, I found a seat in the waiting room and placed Dash on the floor between my feet. The vet had squeezed our visit into a full Friday afternoon docket which meant several excited dogs and their owners were already crammed into a room half the size of my kitchen. The carrier had felt large swinging from its handle in the parking lot. Now, it seemed small, surrounded by canines scratching the linoleum, tugging on leashes, sniffing chair legs, and barking at airborne entities invisible to the human eye. Sympathetic to the fact that if he were not trapped in a plastic bucket on the floor, Dash would be clambering to a quiet hiding spot in the ceiling, I slid my feet further under my chair and with them, the carrier.

A young German Shepherd across from us pulled on his leash, all paws, ears, and, unfortunately for Dash, curiosity about the container between my feet. Lurching and sliding towards us, nails tapping on the linoleum, Young Shepherd shoved a nose bigger than Dash’s head into the space below my chair and sniffed at the wire lattice that was the carrier door. After failing to nudge the animal away with my shin, I suggested to the man holding the leash that he might want to pull the dog away.

He was a large man in a loose t-shirt and baggy shorts, squeezed into the narrow plastic seat and looking hot and dishevelled. Next to him sat his wife or girlfriend, equally large and dishevelled. Her Aerosmith tank top and flip flops completed the impression that these two had been called away from a backyard barbecue and several cases of beer. He squinted in my direction while she looked at me with wide eyes. Then, pushing his thick legs into the linoleum for leverage, he dragged the unwilling puppy back towards him.

“The cat isn’t well,” I explained. “I don’t want to stress him out any more than necessary.”

The man laughed.

“We have two cats,” he said with a lazy grin. “We haven’t seen them in two months since we brought her home.” He indicated who “her” was by gesturing to Young Shepherd who was now sniffing the bottom of the receptionist desk.

I stared at him incredulously.

He nodded and chuckled. “She came home, they ran upstairs, and we haven’t seen ‘em since.” He shrugged, giving Young Shepherd more lead so she could investigate the food shelves. “Oh well.”

The woman next to him widened her eyes more and nodded her silent confirmation that this was true.

Suddenly, illustrating the need for cats to hide from her, Young Shepherd bolted towards the hallway leading to the examining room, yanking on the leash and managing to get her front paws off the floor before the man caught her and shortened the slack. For a moment before she was forced back to his chair, she was half suspended, lolling her tongue excitedly and bicycling her front paws in the air.

The reason for the excitement came around the corner and filled the remaining space in the tiny waiting room. Two massive dogs, Bears One and Two I will call them, each pulling a woman behind them. I silently asked God to give the older of the two women strength when I noticed her sandal slip on the linoleum as Bear One tried to drag her to the door.

Young Shepherd sprang and barked. The man, giving clear evidence for why two hiding cats might not trust him to keep the new dog from mauling them, invited Young Shepherd, in a tone one might use to encourage babies to walk, to stop barking. Young Shepherd declined the invitation.

“Just give me a minute!” the receptionist cheerfully yelled over the barking to the woman as Bear One heaved on the leash. “I’ll get your bill ready in just a minute.”

“A minute?” I thought watching this woman’s arms shake. “She won’t last ten seconds!”

She turned to the younger woman behind her; a woman I took to be her daughter and who was under an equal amount of stress trying to prevent all thirty-eight inches and two hundred and forty pounds of Bear Two from following Bear One’s lead.

The receptionist again called, “One minute!” before sitting at her computer to prepare the bill.

While I imagined what it would look like if either woman released a hand to fish a credit card out of a purse, the women started discussing how they were going to exit. A dog had just appeared outside the office door, pressed its nose against the glass, and started barking at all of us inside. The Bears were now in a frenzy. I instinctively gripped Dash’s carrier more tightly, thanking God that at least Young Shepherd now seemed content to sit and pant quietly at the drama.

Outside Dog’s owner, a middle-aged woman who cupped her hands around her eyes and scrutinized the office like a rodeo rider scrutinizes a bull, spoke to someone out of view, handed this person the leash, and pushed the dog away from the door. She swaggered into the office, confident and grinning.

“Can’t bring mine in here!” she drawled loudly to all of us. “This place would be NUTS if I did that!”

I marvelled at her choice of words and wondered how she would describe the room at this moment.

The carrier between my feet caught her attention.

“A cat!” she cried gaily. “She must be loving this!”

Before I could answer and correct her on the matter of Dash’s sex, she continued by shouting at the receptionist, “I’ll wait outside and bring Sheba in when the coast is clear.”

The receptionist nodded and smiled gratefully before turning to her computer to prepare the bill for the Bears. At this moment, another woman, like the hat stand hidden in Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, emerged from the examining room.

Small, slight, and timid looking, she carried a thick blanket in her arms. Poking out of the blanket was the tiny head of a grey miniature poodle in a state of terrified palsy. The poodle’s trembling head swung from side to side taking in the waiting room mayhem. Its owner did the same before screwing her face up in worry and addressing the room.

“I’m coming through!!” the slight and timid lady cried shrilly as she took a step towards the Bears. “I was attacked by a large dog! I suffer from anxiety and so does my little dog!” The poodle stared at us with bulging eyes and vibrated its corroborating testimony.

The women, digging deep and finding Hercules, held the writhing Bears firm while the shivering poodle was air lifted past them. Barbecue couple squinted and stared wide-eyed, as lady and poodle approached Young Shepherd who was as curious about the blanket as she had been about the carrier. Now, she was pinned to her owner’s leg.

The timid lady hoisted the poodle higher as she tentatively stepped around Young Shepherd. “She’s just had a shot!! She’s quite anxious!” she cried again to the entire room.

Now she only had the door to contend with. Through its glass peered that swaggering old rodeo rider, Sheba’s owner. Sheba, still out of view but perhaps sensing the imminent arrival of another dog, started barking again. Now wide-eyed herself, timid lady shrieked at the door and quite possibly the entire parking lot, “We’re coming through!!!” before pushing the door open and fleeing the office.

I looked back to reception in time to catch Bear One’s keeper single-handedly restraining the dog and snapping her purse closed. I was happy God had answered my plea for strength for this woman but disappointed I had missed watching her pay her bill. That is the way of the circus; sometimes you do not know where to look.

Ten minutes later, I stood watching the vet try to give Dash a pill for what he had diagnosed as an upper respiratory tract infection. His assistant, who had earlier tried to ply Dash with a piece of kibble, as effective as trying to ply a toddler with a Brussel sprout, desperately tried to pin Dash’s body onto the table and keep his claws away from her skin.

The vet was in full fencing mode, approaching with his hand and then darting away when Dash snapped at him with his jaws. After four attempts, he managed to seize Dash’s jowls, squeeze his mouth open, and drop the pill into his throat. He blew into Dash’s face, forcing the cat to close his mouth and swallow. For one glorious second, the vet’s face shone with victory. And then it filled the room. Half a measure of the Barf Alarm. A moment later, Dash was licking his chops, and the pill was back on the table.

After three more fencing rounds – Dash: 3; Vet:0 - the vet threw in the towel, giving his assistant permission to lift her torso off Dash’s back, straighten her fur-covered top, and fix her glasses.

He wiped his brow, taking a moment to find his composure and muster a smile.

“I’m going to let you do this at home,” he said as nonchalantly as he could, eyeing Dash warily as he retrieved the bile-soaked pill from the table and keeping his hands well away from Dash’s mouth. “You’ll give him one pill a day for fourteen days. Oh, and there’s another pill. Once a day for five days.”

I nodded, silently vowing to never give Dash a pill and rely instead on God’s miraculous design we call the immune system.

There was a pause as everyone caught their breath and took stock of what had just occurred.

Then the vet asked, “Are you brushing his teeth?”

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