Animal cruelty galorus majorus. I’ve just returned home from the most ghastly experience of my life. Dr. Lynn has me double-booked next week about it. The mayor will be hearing from me, as will the papers. Let’s just say that veterinary heads around San Francisco should get ready to roll. They’re proctors of evil I tell you.

I, Donkey Pegasus, was imprisoned against my will for two days at a local veterinary clinic when I arrived for a routine inoculative visit for Booby Muffin, my newly adopted kittenchild. My evil prison must go unnamed for now due to a pending lawsuit (enthusiastically endorsed by my attorney though personally, I’d rather wage a more physical type of warfare.)

It all began quite innocently. Booby Muffin was nervous, I sensed it in her tremulous pseudo-purr as we flew into the city for her appointment. But as usual I was in too much of a hurry to think clearly in the moment. Binkus, Lisa, Sales Reports, Tourist Season—all my daily hauntings crowded my mind as I pumped my wings over Market Street. Hindsight is always such a bitch of clarity. Damn me for not tuning into Booby Muffin’s bestial insights. It’s your fault America. You are warping me human one gram at a time. This empire must fall and I’m beginning my personal crusade of social annihilation at the vet’s office—the first gate of Hell as far I can tell.

We arrived to a nearly empty lobby aside from the fat slob behind the counter who was hoovering Cheetos—foul cheddar amalgamations—through her orange-dusted lips.  Her name is also Lisa. Funny, how two things with the same name can be so different.

Chester Cheetah: Uh… Bob… will you come out here?

Me: Hi, this is Booby Muffin (holding up my little girl to the window) and I’m Donkey Pegasus. Booby’s here for some shots.

Veterinary Assistant Demon: Bobbb…

Me: Who’s this Bob character Lisa?

She-hemoth (she’s fat): Oh my God it knows my name!

Me: You’re wearing a name tag. Look, I think you might be confused…

Ugly Lisa: Bob, tranquilizer stat, we’ve got a 242 situation on our hands!

Me: Ugh.. what’s a?

(enter Bob)

Here is where my memory dissolves into a thick black fudge. I woke up to the sound of my sweet little Booby’s frightened meows in the pitch dark, a sharp pain piercing my forehead, and the horrendous realization that I was in a cage.  What on Earth did Bob and that horrible Cheetoh freak do to me?

Shortly thereafter I fell once again into a deep awful slumber. I dreamt of Alcatraz, of Binkus in a giant Chicken suit pouring wing sauce over Booby Muffin, of chomping bell peppers only to realize they were filled with ground sirloin. Nightmares, need I not point out, pervaded my first night of imprisonment. I was drugged, bound, and made to sleep on a mildewy concrete surface that smelled of swine and chlorine.

…

Artificial daylight puttered on with a buzz—my God I hate fluorescents—and who do you think stood before me but Bob, in some asinine getup. Image a gay male dental assistant who livens up the office by wearing the most outrageous printed smocks available. This is Bob, but Bob has a mean streak and seemed capable of bench-pressing a Prius. Bob, my captor, spoke to me but in the way that people talk to their pets, a tone that suggests they expect neither comprehension nor response.

Bob:  Feeling better after a good night’s sleep you crazy beast?

I tried to tell him to go f*%k himself with a Swiffer WetJet but it came out like this:  bwooohlaaayyybwaaaahhh. It didn’t even start with F.  The drugs, obviously, still had their grip on me.

Bob opened a small door in the larger cage door and lured my drug-addled self towards him with a carrot (uninspired, I know).  I reached for it with my jaw but suddenly, he had my entire snout in his inescapable muscleman deathgrip and there he was, shoving some giant yellow pill down my throat with his gloved hand and then laying a water hose on my tongue and spraying that sour pill down down down down, and I was down for the count once again.

…

The previous day repeated itself so exactly that the only indication that a new day had dawn was Bob’s animal print smock (yesterday’s was bicycles.) How cute:  the animal torture chief enjoys wearing his trophy pelts. I once again attempted to speak by alerting him to the fact that my attorney was most likely lighting a charcoal spit with his name on it but it came out like this:  ssshchwaaaahhhhhh.

Dammit.

I was starving, but not even a Pink Lady Apple with peanut butter could convince me to open my mouth for another of Dr. Bob’s power pills.  As my senses sharpened throughout the day I observed my captors’ patterns:

• Cheetoh took a break every 20 minutes or so (she’ll certainly never be promoted with that work ethic)
• There seemed to be two rows of cages to my left (but none above me, my cage was most likely the largest)
• Booby Muffin was alive; I saw Dr. Bob carry her by her scruff to a scale, where he weighed her, stroked her nose, then fed her a half-can of tuna

This information? Useless. Like in the movies, I looked for a key. For a dozing guard. For a friend in the next cell over who could tell me of a secret brick in my cell that, when removed, would reveal a map, a large magic emerald, and a sword. None of this happened, but the fact that I could conceive of it showed that my mental acuity had returned.  Bob strolled past and I spoke.

Me:  Bob, there’s been a mixup. My name is Donkey Pegasus and I am not a pet, I am a functioning human-like animal with a career, my own home (well, shelter), and a small kitten named Booby Muffin whom I entrusted with your care two days ago. Instead you drugged me, imprisoned me, and as soon as I am released you will suffer the wrath of my vengeance.

Bob:  Liiisssa.

Me:  I doubt she’ll be able to help. She’s got the smarts of the shoelace.

Lisa came in, shoving gummy bears into her trap, and said, “See see, I told you I wasn’t lying! I knew I heard him!  A talking donkey with wings! We’re gonna be rich!”

Me: How ugly and typical Lisa. Looking to profit from my talents. Look, you can call my office for verification but I command you to release me at once. And Jesus Christ, don’t you imbeciles read the paper? I’ve been profiled a bajillion times in there. My God, I would have thought there was at least one responsible literate in this hellhole facility. Dunces. What do you have whipped cream for brains?

They left, looking halfway hurt.  If daggers I cannot throw them daggers of words I will hurl through my cage at them! Hours passed, and though I heard the droning muffle of activity, phone calls, doors opening and closing, I can not tell you what process they may have followed to confirm the truth:  they had incarcerated a celebrated figure of the community.

Bastards. Well, needless to say they let me out. Our farewell was tense and I told them to not even think about billing me. It was nightfall yesterday when I was able to finally stretch my wings and kiss my sweet Booby Muffin, and take off towards the safety of our island sanctuary. Even in the city you find these degenerate idiot people.
Egregious Veterinary Imprisonment:  This is my charge against them.  If I have my way they will be raided, strip searched (I feel sorry for the poor fellow who’ll be assigned to Cheetoh Lisa) and delisted as an operating veterinary clinic.  I have emailed the Better Business Bureau and submitted my review on Yelp.

This is not the last you will hear of this matter. Not even close. Perhaps you didn’t know this, but donkeys are not easy to forgive.