Because the vet couldn’t coax a stool sample out of Psycho on Tuesday (the scientific term she used was, "He’s empty"), she gave me a plastic bag and told me to collect his next deposit in the litter box. Although Psycho rarely uses his litter box (he’s an outdoor sort of guy), I gave him a couple of chances to do the right thing. After that didn’t work I locked him in last night to force the issue. That pissed him off, and he let me know it hourly through the night, but it worked. I dropped this off at the vets’ this morning:
Psycho Courtney I love it! It’s a nice counterbalance to Notoriously Nice. Actually, that’s how he is listed in the vets’ computer system. I wonder if I can use that to get him a social security card, a driver’s license, and a passport. If I ever need to flee the country, I can’t think of a better identity to assume than that of Psycho Courtney. Image the tales I could fabricate for the ladies in Rio’s bars. "Yes, darling, I got that scar when I wrestled a mad rhino to the ground in Mozambique. The poor bugger didn’t stand a chance against Psycho Courtney."
Eat your heart out, Crocodile Hunter.