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I closed my eyes. I hated needles so much just the thought made me weak at the knees. Not that I had any chance of standing up in this cramped box. Dooley, who’s a lot smaller than me, at least had some wiggle room, while I filled out this entire box. My butt was pushed up against the back, my nose against the front, and I could hardly move. Good thing I’m not claustrophobic! And to think Odelia said she got me the biggest carrier she could find. I’d already told her she should have gotten me a dog carrier. They come in the bigger sizes. But she said she still had to be able to carry me.

Just then, another person came in, carrying a box containing a scared-looking cat. I knew that cat. It was Shanille, the conductor of cat choir, and the person carrying her was none other than Father Reilly himself.

“Hey, Shanille,” I said. “So you’re up for it, too, huh?”

“Hey, Max,” she said softly. “Dooley. Yeah, I fought hard, but to no avail.”

“You’re not sick or anything are you?”

“Sick? Why would I be sick? I’m the healthiest cat alive. No, I’ve got a tick.”

I frowned.“A tick? What’s a tick?”

“Beats me. Father Reilly says I have a tick, so we had to come to Vena to get rid of it.”

“It’s a heart condition,” said Dooley. “Has to be. Humans call the heart the ticker. What Father Reilly probably meant to say was that you have a problem with your ticker.”

“I don’t have a problem with my ticker! My ticker is just fine. He said tick, not ticker.”

“Yeah, Dooley,” I said. “If it was her ticker they wouldn’t want to get rid of it, would they?”

“Unless her ticker is broken. They’d want to replace it with another ticker.” His eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh, God. Is that why I’m here? They’re going to remove my ticker and put it in Shanille? But I don’t want to die! I’m too young to die!”

“Tick, not ticker,” I reminded him. “A tick is obviously not a ticker, so your ticker is perfectly safe.”

He didn’t seem to buy it, still looking worried. “We should Google it,” he said. “The Google knows everything. The Google knows what a tick is.”

“It’s notthe Google, Dooley,” I said. “It’s Google, without the article.”

“What article?”

“Forget about it.”

“So what are you guys here for?” asked Shanille.

“Me, to have my tick removed and implanted in you,” said Dooley dully, “and Max to have his morbid obesity taken care of.”

“I’m not morbidly obese! I’m big. It’s genetic.”

“You have gained a lot of weight, Max,” said Shanille. “You should probably go on a diet.”

“I’m not going on a diet! I hate diets! And I’m not overweight. I’m just big, that’s all.”

“You don’t even fit in that cage. You’re pressed up against the sides like a balloon. You look like something that exploded inside that cage and is now sticking to the sides.”

“Nice, Shanille. And here I thought you were my friend,” I grumbled.

“I’m just looking out for you. At the rate you’re going you’re going to have trouble with your ticker soon. I know because Vena told me last time I had an enlarged heart and I had to go on a diet.”

“You don’t look overweight,” said Dooley. “In fact you look just fine.”

“I know, right? That’s because I went on the diet.”

“Look, my ticker is fine,” I insisted, not liking the direction this conversation had taken.

“Oh, my God!” Dooley screamed. “They’re going to take my ticker and implant it in you, aren’t they?! Because your ticker is on the fritz. That’s why I’m here! I’m gonna die!”

“Nobody is going to have their ticker removed, Dooley,” I said with an eyeroll. “My ticker is fine, your ticker is fine, and Shanille’s ticker is fine. See? We’re all fine.”

“Except that I have trouble with my tick,” said Shanille.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a life-threatening thing,” I said.

“You never know,” said Dooley, still panting hard. He was looking around nervously, at the posters on the wall warning pet owners about the various diseases they needed to monitor their dearly beloved pets for. “I could have rabies, or an upper respiratory tract infection, or kidney failure, or ringworm or zoonosis or hookworm infection or toxocariasis or gingivitis or giardiasis or sporotrichosis or bartonellosis—”

“Stop, stop!” Shanille yelled. “You’re making me sick.”

“I know! That’s because weare sick! Why else would we be at the vet?!”

“We’re just here for our annual checkup,” I reminded him. “Just like humans have to visit the dentist once a year, we visit Vena once a year. That doesn’t mean we’re sick or dying. That just means Odelia wants to make sure we’re fine, all right? She loves us and wants to take care of us.”

“All right,” he said, settling down somewhat. Then his eye fell on one particular poster and he gave a loud yelp. “Tick—tick—tick!” he cried, pointing his paw.

Shanille and I looked in the direction indicated and saw a large picture of the most horrible creature I’d ever seen in my entire life. It looked like a giant red spider, and it was burrowing into the skin of some poor hapless pet. “Oh my God!” I squeaked.

But Shanille shrieked the loudest.“Get it off me! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!”