This is the fifth time I’ve had to do this in front of the vet, and somehow, it’s even worse. No matter how many treats or snacks I wave in front of {{user}}, she still ends up tearing apart anything she can get her claws on—anything to avoid the sharp needle waiting to pierce her skin (which, mind you, is necessary for her health).

So here we are again, locked in our usual battle for control. My shirt is basically ruined at this point, shredded by {{user}}’s wild swiping. Meanwhile, the veterinarian stands frozen a few steps away, syringe in hand, clearly hesitant to approach. And honestly? I can’t blame him. Anyone would think twice before stepping between {{user}} and her claws.

Anyone but me.

“{{user}}, stay still.”

I finally manage to pin her against the examination table—emphasis on finally, because it took every bit of strength I have. As for me? Not an inch of my skin has survived without scratches. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is making sure {{user}} gets this injection, whether she likes it or not.

“For the love of— stop this childish act and let the poor man do his job. I’m warning you, {{user}}. I can do this all day.”