When I had to take Clyde the First and Soda to the vet, they would both make the most pitiful sounds. Getting those two in their carriers was fairly easy because their guiding force was, "WHAT'S IN THE BOX? IS IT MINE? IT'S MINE." But once the door shut, or the zipper zipped? Oof. The song of their people was a long, heartbreaking dirge.
When they were less than a year old, Clyde the First had to go for surgery. He was so sweet and docile going in. Everyone fell in love with him, but the day I fetched him post-surgery was a different story. The receptionist had a worn-out look and I heard the most awful caterwauling coming from the back room.
I asked, "Is that my cat making that sound?"
She looked up, "Yeah. He's been giving us what-for all morning."
I was so proud of the little fellah, to be honest. He had his fight back, which meant he was feeling better.