I've been feeling a bit blue these past few days, and the boys can sense it. They're such a sweet bunch - at least to me (to each other, they range from ignoring and denial to downright hostility, especially the old man.)
Wacky, when he deigns to move from his domain (the bathroom and hall) or his throne (the back of the big, green chair), sits on my left (always left, always) for rubs, scratches, and praise, then snuggles down between the cushions and my leg.
BBOB has been camped out as my permanent footwarmer, only moving when a choicer spot - the back of the big, green chair - is free.
Moji waits till everyone else goes to their respective corners then drops mousies in my lap so that we can play fetch; after he's bored, he collapses at my side for tummy rubs, washing my fingers, and kneeding the air.
Puncturing the kitties
First Wackster and his diabetes. Now Moji.
He had a patch down his spine where he's worried the hair off, plus it was time for his yearly. So off to Adobe and Dr. Derenzi. We cooled our heels in the exam room, waiting for the doc. She was delayed while putting down someone else's kitty; it's nice to know that when/if the time comes for one of my monsters, they'll take as much time with me as necessary. I know I'll be an utter wreck.
The monkey's healthy, he now outweighs BBOB at 14.5 lbs, and his teeth are beautiful. He clung to me, as always, head buried in the crook of my arm, politely let her look at his mouth while I held him, then gave a half-hearted hiss after she took his temp.
The patch of skin? Dr. Derenzi thinks it's most likely allergies, perhaps due to a flea bite or it could be seasonal.
My baby's got hay fever.
(chuckles) My fuzzy muffins are so unusual!
Anyway, our options: Antihistamines, but they don't work really well with cats. Or steroidal: Chew? A no go, that won't work. Pill? A nightmare, not the option of choice for me the mama. Liquid? We can work the dropper, perhaps. Syringe? Hey, I've been poking Wacky for years now, I'm a pro.
I didn't know if Moji would put up with me doing it but, as Dr. Derenzi said "He'll let you do anything, he knows and loves you." And it's true; he may be a biter/fighter with everyone else, but he's a love with me. She asked if I wanted to give it a go, and got a syringe ready. Grab scruff, tent skin, pop the cover off the needle, poke, squeeze plunger, and it was done. With not a sound, not a peep, not a wiggle or squirm from my fuzzy love.
Two weeks, and hopefully he'll stop scratching enough for the hair to grow back. Meanwhile, everyone's gotta get Advantage'd. Just in case.
At the end of the visit, though, while I was inserting him back into the carrier, he pooped on the move. Several on the floor, then in the carrier, just... continual. Thankfully solid.
I've never seen that before.
Especially snuggled up against my knitting projects.
House too cold? He's got FUR, for criminy's sake.
Maybe he likes staring at the bulb until those little spots appear in front of his eyes.
Or a cold, moist nose is kinda uncomfortable in the winter; I wouldn't like it.
Practicing for New Year's partying?
Most likely, the shade concentrates the signals from his home planet and he can communicate with his kind.
Every evening he does this. When he comes out from under, his little head is so toasy warm.
Now admittedly, I'm a procrastinator of the first order. But this had me in alternating states of denial and squicky terror all winter and spring: I was held hostage in my house by the carcass of the dead kitten, that I was too chicken to pick up.
But I am not a big girl's blouse. I am not a sissy wussy.
All of its brothers and sisters had been caught and fostered. There was just this one left out there. The more I thought about it, the more I felt it was my responsibility, I couldn't just leave it. Or worse, pass the task off to someone else as if it were a stray piece of refuse.
It finally had to be done. And I had to do it.
I called my mother for moral and spiritual support, threw a bunch of wet paper towels down on top of it, pushed with the broom, scraped with a trowel (it was stuck to the floor boards... (sigh)), bunched plastic garbage bags on top and around it and got it up. All the while mumbling "Poor baby, poor baby, poor baby..." Bag(s) in hand, I fastwalked down the stairs and to the dumpster.
If there is a kitty heaven, it's a nice thought that this stripey baby is there romping around with Speedy while Cleo and Buttercup are looking on. Rest in peace, little one.
The monkey is out of the hospital, thank goodness. They'd removed his catheter last night, and had been waiting for him to go on his own. No such luck. They wanted to wait till he urinated on his own before releasing him. And he finally did. Just not in the box.
When I got him this evening, he'd peed all over himself. And wouldn't let a soul get near him without a growl, hiss, or nip. Of course, Mommy could reach right in and grab him up. And of course, he just snuggled right in for a cuddle.
I love my baby boy. Yes I do.
They told me to watch that he used in his box at home, so we're now in the bathroom, me in fresher clothes and he all disposable-handi-wash-shampooed up. I feel like I still smell, and I'm so tired, I could stretch out here on the floor, but for the aforementioned litter box under the sink and in my way.
Love, love, love. Sure do love my baby cat.
to pee or not to pee
The baby cat's in the hospital again. Poor monkey, he was all blocked up again. This time I caught him straining; by the time I got him to Adobe on Wednesday morning, he was all tuckered out.
Moji knew where he was going, though, and what those fools were going to do to him, and he wasn't having it, not this time. He tensed up like he was doing isometrics and kegels. After the young vet (not Dr. Christy he was kinda used to) poked and prodded with the tubing and yet didn't get it in (ouch, ouch, ouch, it hurt just to watch), he decided that he'd had enough and could do it himself; when I picked him up to comfort him, he let loose a stream of urine all over the floor and, well, me. "Wow, look at that flow!", the tech said.
All through the procedure, everyone marvelled at how good he was, just growling a little. And this time, they gave him some anesthesia and valium while they put the flexible catheter in. The young vet was very sweet. At one point, she bent down and kissed him on his little black nose, telling him he was such a good boy. And in return, he, though drowsy and drugged up, let out the tiniest hiss - "ssss..." - we all had to laugh. I got to carry him back to ICU and put on his collar - the awful cone-shaped thing to keep him from pulling out the catheter and IV.
I got a call from a tech that afternoon, asking if I was coming by that evening. "We want to give him some meds, but he's being kinda uncooperative." That's my baby. During my visit that evening, he took his pills with no fuss (while I was holding him), and let me cradle his little head in my hands. I was pleased to see that the urine in the catheter was clear by then.
My little fuzzy love, he kept giving me that look, "I hate this place and these people; take me home, right now, please." I'm with you, Booble; I can't wait till you come home, too.