After further observation, I decided my black cat was not getting better on her own. She has still been moping around, and this week, I noticed that her once glossy, sleek fur was becoming dull and clumpy. So yesterday, while I was spending the kids' inheritance on the dogs' annual and grooming (or maybe it just felt that way), I conferred with the doc, and she agreed I should bring her in for a look-see. Today was her turn, and we spent an hour in the exam room, getting probed and squeezed and inspected. She had blood drawn (which stresses me out for reasons I will explain in a minute), and thankfully they took her into a back room to do that. I stayed in the exam room, and worried while she was out of sight. Through it all, she was a trooper. Brave and well-mannered. Although while the doc was squeezing her underside, she remarked that she had never heard a cat purr and growl at the same time. They couldn't find an obvious explanation for why her temperature is 103.9, so now we wait for the results of the blood panel.
I paid today's bill, and told the woman processing my charge that I don't know who it is who owns the clinic, but I just made his or her boat payment for this month. I think I'm on peanut butter sandwiches and water until further notice. (Not really-- on the way home, I asked my cat if she minded if drove us through a fast food restaurant on the way home, because of all things, I really wanted a Pepsi. I got a roast beef sandwich to share, but she wasn't interested, so her portion became a nice surprise for the kitten when we got home.)
I notice that my experiences with all the cats I had before now have colored how I am reacting to my melancholy baby's illness. When blood needed to be drawn, I became fearful because of one cat who my stepfather loved dearly. He was so terrified when the electric clippers came on to prep the site for a needle stick, that he turned and bit all the way through the vet's hand, on that fleshy part between the thumb and index finger. To process the pain, the vet swore loudly and slammed his fist down on the metal exam table. That was the final fright for our cat, and he died of a heart attack in my stepfather's hands, on the exam table. When I noticed this cat's changes in habit and grooming, I decided not to delay having her examined, thinking specifically of my first cat to live to fifteen (the one I got about five months before I met my man), who should have gone to the doc sooner, when we might have stopped the giant thyroid tumor that ended his life. And finally, when it was obvious I had to bring her in myself, without a friend or family member to play cat wrangler in the car, I bought my first cat carrier in at least 18 years. I stopped using them forever when I had a claustrophobic cat who flipped out on our first move away from Boulder, releasing every fluid and solid that his body could possible expel, as he spun in frantic circles in his carrier. But here I was, going back on the vow I made back then never to cage my cats in the car. (For the record, the kitten's carrier from the shelter was unacceptable because of the lime dip residue, and I don't want to cross-contaminate anyone.) I bought a soft-sided one and brought it out last night so it could be inspected. And inspected it has been. I think the only member of the pride who hasn't played in it is the old man. The kitten is in it now. And last night, while she felt so bad, my little sick kitty sat in the carrier, on the couch, and let me zip it up, to keep the kitten out. Athena was determined to pester her, even slipping in the tiniest gap to get in the carrier as well. Sometimes that kitten's behavior is downright crazy.
No comments:
Post a Comment