While it's clear that Tom is getting the better end of the deal than the girls (home alone, visited and fed once a day by my sister-in-law or sort of-neighbor (and bless them, they do the litterboxes! the SIL et al., not the kitties)), getting him to the facility is a trial. It's the same on a short jaunt to the vet. He curls up in the corner of the carrier and cries or, as I like to say, sings his sad, sad song, which goes a little something like this: "rowrowrowrOWROWROwrowrow"*
It's heartbreaking. I'm also fairly sure it's pure manipulation, since the moment I get him home, he's all snuggles and racing after the other kitties and then sitting on top of the carrier as if to say, "You're not the boss of me." So even though I know he's just fine, I'm guilt-ridden the entire feline-blues-laden journey.
Know what's worse than the sad, sad, song? SILENCE. Complete lack of vocalization. Not a whimper, not a purr. This time, HT sat in the carrier, not curled up in the corner, but with his face framed in the mesh door. Watching me. Silently. The. Entire. Trip. I'm pretty sure he never even blinked.
He is good. He is very, very good.
"Headology. I has it."
*"row" is here pronounced as if describing a tiff or a quarrel. I very nearly recorded a voice post of me mimicking HT's sad, sad song, but I figured this specification would do the trick.