August 14, 2007

Bad Moon Rising

Lock up your pets, y'all.

Friday: Two days after Molly's bum debacle, I got a frantic phone call from my mother saying my cat is shaking, not eating, and bright red. My cat is gray. I race home thinking 'glowing nuclear cat' thoughts, to find my poor kitty indeed shaking pitifully, her skin a very bright red. Several tests at my hilarious neighborhood vet later, we still don't know what's wrong with her (and I won't be paying bills again until 2009). I bust out credit card number two and beg the vet for pain drugs, at least, which he prescribes along with a steroid and a gastro-pill, in case she swallowed something that's not showing up on the films. I take her home. She eats whipped cream, some kitty treats and wet food; I exhale and drive home, hoping the vet will tell me she's better at her appointment the following day.

Saturday: Lucy the bright red wonder is still not drinking. She gets sub-cu fluids injected into her back, making her look like a lopsided sunburned camel. Instantly, she is moving around more than she has in days, although her gait is a bit ungainly under the sloshing hydro-pack. My sister and I cry-laugh at each annoyed, wobbly step, because we've been sick with panic for two days and need to unclench, which explains the fit of guilty giggles as we imagine her tackling the staircase. The vet comes back with a fresh x-ray: still nothing wrong. He gives me one more prescription and warns that she may foam. My cat is an atomic washing machine. I scoop her up and take her back home--she protests the movement, which is a good sign. I sleep that night dreaming about Lucy--alive, well, and inexplicably fighting crime.

Sunday: Lucy is gray once again, moving, meowing, and eating non-stop. She wants to be petted constantly, so I pet her and scratch her and generally call her a pretty pretty princess, nauseating everyone in earshot. Don't care. My cat is no longer glowing, shaking, or dying; she'll get whatever her fat furry heart desires and they can all shut their faceholes. She gets more pills, food, lovin.' I go home, sit on the couch, and feel for the first time in days like I'm not being squeezed.

Monday: Frantic phone call. My brother's dog has attacked my sister's shih-tzu. The old shih-tzu. With a heart problem. Shaken by the neck in the jaws of the world's stupidest husky. My sister has apporpriately flipped her shit. Shih-tzu's x-rays reveal a slipped disc, but aside from that, she should recover. Puncture wounds on neck are cleaned as vet wonders what the hell goes on in our house. I tell him not to ask if he doesn't have a free weekend and a fridge full of wine. Attack dog is ostracized to the basment until solution can be found, or at least until my sister stops threatening lead-pipe related animal violence. She's a PETA member.

Tuesday: Who knows? Mad Cow? The fish come down with rabies? House explodes? It there a full moon out there, people?

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