emergency midnight trip to vet
Tuesday 26 June 2007 | 2 cookies in the jar
When I got home from dinner with the Brujo, Pyewacket kept flopping down in mid-stride to lick her bottom violently, but declined to let me see why. And when I say “declined” I mean with all four dagger-feet and eyeteeth flashing. I decided just to keep an eye on her, especially since she’s been through enough indignity lately, what with all the brushing and bathing—but then I ditched this wait-and-see policy when she began growling at her own little asshole, and trolling around the house hollering. Could be her bladder, I thought; or she could have eaten part of the rosebush and have some kind of weird obstruction. Either way I didn’t feel like fighting with her. I brought in the cat carrier, she clambered inside and away we went.
The results?
1. She pooped angrily on the examining table;
2. She’d apparently ingested so much of her own hair, post-bathing, that her insides were mildly impacted; now she will take $10 furball remedy which is of course nothing but white petroleum jelly mixed with malt syrup and a bunch of other stuff I’m sure she’ll find disgusting;
3. She needed her glands in a certain unmentionable place expressed;
4. She has an abscessed tooth that needs to be pulled, which is why all the perfumes of Araby (i.e., tartar control treats) have failed to sweeten her breath, and her other teeth also badly need cleaning;
5. The vet recommended I get her shaved for the summer, a fetching style called “the lion,” kind of like a Brazilian for cats, which will leave her with nothing but face/ruff, feet and tail-tip intact (”Most cats like it and kind of prance around afterward.” —”Yeah. Probably not this one”), especially a good idea given a) my allergies and b) Central Arizona;
6. She is officially fat (nearly 12 pounds of affectionate avoirdupois) and should apparently be eating wet food instead of dry food (”That stuff is all carbs,” explained the vet, herself no doubt orthorexic) to aid in the weight-loss effort; and last but not least,
7. Mommy’s credit card had another $100 added to its balance.
I came home coated in nervous-cat hairs and headed straight for the shower. Now I’m here with wet hair wrapped in a towel and discreetly scratching my soft palate with my tongue; Pye’s crouched underneath the desk looking appalled and traumatized. First thing tomorrow morning I make her a dental and grooming appointment—ideally they can perform both services while she’s suitably anesthetized. I’ll post photos of her new haircut so we can all have a hearty laugh at her expense, you may rely upon it.
Virginia Woolf never had cats. Probably a good reason for that.
2 cookies in the jar
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I know there is nothing funny about it right now, but this post CRACKED my shit UP.
Also, your Vet is incredibly mistaken about wet food. That shit’s like Chef Boyardee; nothing will chunk her up faster. The ONLY time I’d advocate for wet food is for cats with urinary problems. Let’s talk appropriate diets: 1/4 cup of science diet adult light, twice a day.
…alright, and now I’m picturing the whole scene and cracking up again.
Poor Pyewacket. (But I can’t wait to see the photo!) Poor Un.
Loved the entry on food. The honey roasted peanuts thing sounds like something I would do…though I don’t think I ever have.
Sending you good ‘preparing for moving’ vibes…