Wayne is a wrathful cat. We conjecture that it might be because she's fat; it might be because she's got a dude name; it might be because she was born under a bad sign. One way or another, when she boards at our hospital, Wayne is a sort of sport unto herself, with bored assistants taking it upon themselves to get uncomfortably close to her kennel and crow "WAYNE! KITTYKITTY! WHO'S A KITTY?!", thus prompting a chorus of hissing so enraged that it often sends Wayne into a sneezing fit of wrath.
Last week, when Wayne was boarding, I noticed that she has a habit of staring at the right-hand wall of her kennel. I remarked on it offhandedly; the senior assistant to whom I brought it up speculated that she was probably musing on the potential edibility of her next-door feline neighbor. We shared a hearty chuckle and moved on, but it was too late - Kit had overheard. Kit is a quirky young lady who's headed off to veterinary school in the fall, and let me tell you right now, you want to get a pet in four to six years and have Kit be that pet's vet, because good lord, are you and that pet about to have some fun.
Within moments, Kit had whipped up a solution to Wayne's blank-wall-staring problem - a television "screen" made of paper, permanently stuck on the same pencil-drawn channel, which appears to be showing a program about a happy rabbit.
Kit placed this television on the right-hand wall of Wayne's kennel, and ever since then, Wayne has watched TV, meditatively, with great focus, pausing in her observations only to spit brief wrath at passing doctors and nurses. When we enter the treatment area in the morning, we ask, "What's Wayne watching today?" Kit, or one of her cohorts, answers, "Same thing as yesterday. She never changes the channel." And the day moves forward.
