My Take Tuesday: Snowball

It was a brisk morning at the clinic, the kind where steam rises from coffee cups and everything feels just a little too hurried. Appointments were stacked back-to-back, and the phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the doors opened.

Right on the dot, Mrs. Robins arrived.

She was one of our long-standing clients, the sort who never missed an appointment and always brought a quiet warmth with her. Her silver-white hair—immaculately set—seemed to mirror the gentleness in her voice. In her arms, she carried a pink pet carrier with a small white face peering through the bars.

“This is Snowball,” she said, smiling as if she were introducing royalty. “She’s just the sweetest thing. An angel at home.”

Now, in veterinary work, there are phrases you learn to greet with quiet skepticism. “She’s never done that before” is one. “He just wants to say hi” is another. And “She’s an angel at home”—well, that one in particular often precedes a bit of drama.

I crouched to peer into the carrier. Snowball stared back at me with unblinking yellow eyes. Her ears flattened slightly. Her body was coiled into that unmistakable feline crouch—legs tucked, muscles taut, tail wrapped tightly as if restraining her own temper.

“She doesn’t seem terribly happy today,” I said.

“Oh, nonsense,” Mrs. Robins replied cheerfully, flipping open the carrier door. “She’ll come right out.”

And come out she did—like a bullet from a gun.

There was no time to react. One moment she was in the carrier, and the next she was airborne, a blur of white fur and furious motion. She landed squarely on Mrs. Robins’ head. All four claws engaged like grappling hooks into her scalp. In the blink of an eye, Snowball fell from her perch, still clinging tightly to what turned out to be Mrs. Robbin’s white wig.

It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so alarming. Her claws dug in like tiny ice picks, and Mrs. Robins, remarkably composed, simply reached down, detached the struggling cat, and replaced her hairpiece with a gentle pat.

“She’s sure mad at you!” she said, without a trace of irritation.

Before I could respond, Snowball turned her fiery gaze on me. There was a pause—brief, tense, and oddly theatrical. Then she launched again.

She hit me mid-thigh, clambering up the front of my trousers like a mountaineer ascending Everest. I winced as her claws found purchase. By the time she reached my shoulder, she had settled in like a bird of prey.

And just like that, it was over.

No hissing. No growling. Just silence.

She perched calmly on my shoulder, perfectly still, as if nothing had happened. Her tail curled neatly around my neck.

I moved slowly—very slowly—and reached for the rabies vaccine. One false move and I’d have a new earring. But Snowball didn’t so much as blink. She allowed the injection with saintly poise, not a twitch or twitch of protest. I finished the rest of her exam as she sat quietly, purring under my stethoscope.

When it was all done, she stepped lightly back into the carrier on her own.

I stood there for a moment, stunned. This cat, who had just conducted a full-scale assault on two humans and one wig, was now as docile as a lamb.

There are bursts of animal behavior we still don’t fully understand—moments of sudden intensity, like a summer storm that appears without warning and vanishes just as quickly.

Mrs. Robins smiled as she lifted the carrier. “She must’ve just had a little rage to get out of her system,” she said. “She really is the sweetest thing.”

I nodded, still watching Snowball, who looked back at me with wide, innocent eyes—as though none of it had ever happened.

Then I felt it: a sting in my leg. I looked down to find a small trickle of blood inching down my shin.

Mrs. Robins walked out into the morning, her white hair once again perfectly in place. Snowball, for all appearances, was a model of serenity.

Snowball can sure keep you guessing. But Mrs. Robins? That woman is unshakeable.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM