Vet Visits, Drama, and Tiny Turtlenecks

Taking Crinkle and Wrinkle to the vet is a performance worthy of an Oscar. Not for me, of course—I’m the frazzled extra fumbling through the chaos—but for Crinkle, my dramatic Sphynx queen. Anything outside the front door is a hard no for her. Wrinkle? She’s no fan either, but at least she’s appeased with a treat. Crinkle, on the other hand, would need a full buffet and probably a spa day to recover.

Thankfully, vet visits are rare. My girls are generally healthy. Wrinkle (aka Plooi) could stand to lose a little fluff (if you can call it that on a Sphynx), and Crinkle takes a tiny daily pill for her blood pressure—more on that another time. We used to go annually for vaccinations, but after seeing how stressed they got, we scaled back to every three years. With their indoor-only, balcony-limited lifestyle, it’s a fair trade-off for their sanity—and mine.

The first (and last) time I had to leave them overnight was for their spay surgeries. Let me tell you, I was a mess. The rational part of me knew they were in good hands, but the “loeder moeder” (bad mom) in me was on high alert, convinced the worst would happen. When I picked them up, they were bundled in the tiniest turtleneck onesies, looking both adorable and pitiful.

Unfortunately, those outfits weren’t a hit. They refused to move, glaring at me like I’d just destroyed their dignity. Worse, the snug fit caused chafing on their little front legs. Cue a quick trip to the store for newborn-sized onesies—loose, comfy, and perfect for my hairless patients. Sure, they looked like hobos, but they could move freely, and that’s what mattered.

Then there’s Crinkle’s specialty: the dramatic vet visit. Her pièce de résistance? A mysterious heart murmur that only shows up at the clinic. Multiple ultrasounds have confirmed her heart is perfectly fine—it’s just stress-induced theatrics. The last time we did an echo, it took a vet, an assistant, and a tech to hold her still. Crinkle doesn’t bite or scratch, but her vocal protest could rival a rock concert.

She screeched so loudly and for so long that other staff came to check if something was wrong. People in the waiting room probably thought there was an exorcism in progress. At one point, it became laughable: on the screen, we could literally see her lungs expanding to fuel her next scream. If Crinkle wants to protest, trust me, you’ll hear about it.

Now, we stick to the vet for absolute necessities. No one, least of all Crinkle, needs that kind of drama on a regular basis. Wrinkle, for her part, handles it all with a resigned look and a post-visit treat, happy to let her sister steal the spotlight.

As I reflect on these vet adventures, I can’t help but hope they live long, healthy lives without needing too many more clinic visits. They’re not just pets; they’re family. My dramatic, bald, one-of-a-kind family.