I have discovered yesterday that a couple of hours at the Veterinary Clinic can be a stressful experience and, for once, my usually obnoxious tabby cat is completely innocent.

The trouble was represented by a young family with a nondescript large dog.
Don't mistake me on this: the dog was a sensible, quiet and good tempered creature, and so was the young father, whereas the Young Mother was a serious candidate for murder.

I use the capitals here because I'm sure she regarded herself as The Young Mother, just out of some sugary commercial. She seemed to labor under the illusion that we should all find enchanting her increasingly noisy motherly effusions, and the matching responses of her ten months old baby, Mickey.

Now, don't think I asked her for the details. Both I and the young man with the baby kitten in the over-sized basket were doing our best to make her feel ignored, in the hope, I think, that she would tire of performing. But no.
Within minutes, in the very short intervals between squeals of "Mommy's baby!" and "Kiss the baby!" we were informed of Mickey's name and age and many perfections. Did we want to hear Mickey make the horse? (Mommy's baby! Kiss the baby!)
Neither I nor the boy with the kitten gave the slightest encouragement, but this did not deter Mommy from eliciting, in increasingly shrill tones, for Mickey's performance.
Although I can probably live with this, I feel I need to point out that we had no horse, whatever Mommy may have thought of it: Mickey kept screaming with delight, on a tone that matched his mother's, but did not see it fit to regale us with his impression of a horse.

Undeterred, Mommy kiss-the-baby-ed on, as though she were paid on a per-decibel basis. At one moment, much to Mickey's (and only Mickey's) enjoyment, she even started singing Ricky Martin. Out of tune and with the wrong words, but this, believe me, was the least of troubles.

To make things worse, there was another young family, whose pet rabbit was being ministered to by the Vet. This other young family had a little girl of three of four, wearing pigtails and a pink windbreaker, by the name of Lexy.
Now, Lexy had been quiet enough, until Mommy saw fit to make Mickey interact with her.
She kept pushing Mickey's baby-cart before the door, inciting him to call to the tata, which is Italian baby-talk for any young female between, say, toddlerhood and early thirties.
Mickey obliged with a vengeance, and so we soon had two yelling children

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