Veterinarians have earned the love and trust of pet-loving kind, and for good reason.

That's why nobody would ever expect to be the brunt of a veterinary practical joke. Now, in the spirit of the great shock-u-mentaries that are late-night cable favorites, I, veterinarian and insider, Dr. Marty Becker, am going to pull the wraps off of veterinary medicine's heinous funny bone with a lampoon we call "give your cat this medicine at home."

It starts out with a cat lover putting off the trip to the veterinarian with a sick cat to avoid the following chain of events: cat hides under the couch, human attempts to extricate the cat and stuff it into a cardboard box, cat claws shred human flesh like a feline Freddy Krueger, cat finally womanhandled (man of the house nowhere to be found, so manhandled not a possibility) into the carrier (typically a cardboard box), cat driven posthaste to the veterinary hospital.

The cat lover then waits and waits for her turn to enter an exam room.

Meanwhile the box rocks and rolls and emits a mournful alien-type sound.

Occasionally a paw moves in and out of the holes looking for something, anything, to get a hold of. Or an eyeball — trying to catch a glimpse of "kitty hell" — looks through the holes that are crudely poked in the lid of the box only to verify the fright-house of strange two- and four-footed foes surrounding them.

Finally, the moment of truth. Like passing a hot potato, Mrs. Frustrated Kitty Client hands over the box-banger, daring the veterinarian, "Go ahead, examine my precious kitty ... and gently."

The veterinarian mentally puts on a helmet and body armor before peeking between the box top flaps.

Let the show begin!

Like a fur-covered jack-in-the-box, out explodes a 10-pound cat ejecting about a pound of furry shrapnel. The cat hisses and rakes the air with its claws in search of a hiding place or escape route. As the talons crisscross the air, you can almost make out the sounds of Darth Vader's light saber, "Whooph, WHOOMPH."

Product displays fall from shelves as crazy-kitty leaves the exam room looking like a trailer park after a Category 5.

Finally, about 325 pounds of restraint (veterinarian plus technician) catch the now nine-pound cat and put on a show called Contortionist Cat Examination. So far so bad. Everyone except the cat is now covered in cat fur. Some are sneezing. Many are bleeding. All are scared.

Amazingly enough, the cat's temperature is normal, but the vet is running a fever. Rather than running blood tests on the cat, the vet figures that since she's bleeding profusely it might be a good time to run blood tests on herself.

Finally, it's our turn to get even by simply saying to Mrs. Client with a straight face, "Socks has an infection that will require treatment at home for the next two weeks. Give Socks one of these tiny pills (about the size of a tennis ball — cat and owner's view) twice daily."

Then we collapse with a satisfying smile as we watch the look of panic spread over the cat lover's face. We shake hands goodbye — feel the sweaty palms and sense the shortness of breath. Like any good mother, Mrs. Client is prepared to do the impossible.

As we watch the rumbling box and dazed owner stagger like a zombie out the hospital door toward the car, we can imagine the World Wrestling Federation Feline Match that will take place once they are home.

Once Ms. Trepidation (formerly Mrs. Frustrated Kitty Client) opens the cat carrier at home, a streak of furry flash-lightning can be seen going under the same couch where this odyssey began. When Trepidation's husband and children come home, she announces sweetly and innocently, "We need to give precious kitty a little medicine, would you mind helping mommy?"

If they've been through this before, they respond with their own dash for cover. If they are rookies, they may agree to help — having no idea what's about to happen.

Soothing words and food lures are ignored by Socks. A quick grab extricates him out from under the couch. With pills and fluffy towels out and doors closed, one set of hands pry open the cat's mouth and the bell rings for Round One. Socks comes out swinging with a classic "bite or flight" response. The family counter-punches by throwing in the towel, literally, over and around the cat to make a catburrito that can be stuffed with medicine. Visualize a thought-bubble above the families' head that reads, "We'll get this lifesaving medicine down you, hellcat, if it kills ya!"

Finally, the pill goes down, you lovingly stroke kitty, and everyone gives a big sigh of relief. Just then, the cat looks directly at you with a disgusted look, spits out the pill, and runs off to hide under, you guessed it, the couch! The family takes Round Two in stride as they put on the leather gloves. Not intimidated by a 575-pound opponent (Mom, Dad, couple of kids) the cat is ready to explore the floor, walls and ceiling of the living room a la Mohammed Ali as it "floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee."

Meanwhile, back at the vet's office, the veterinary team is chuckling, "Can you imagine all the suckers we sent home to try medicate their cats today? NOTE: Insert maniacal laughter soundtrack here.

The truth be known, it's even difficult for veterinarians to give some cats oral medications. In our eyes, it's much better for pet owners to fail than us. So, next time you visit the vet and they say, "Give these little pills to kitty," turn the tables by saying, "No, I think I'll hospitalize her so you can make sure it gets done. As a matter of fact, would you show me the correct way to give a cat a pill, right now?"

Oh no. Payback. The worm has turned.