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February 01, 2006

the sound and the furry

Spike is sick. I came downstairs this morning to have my coffee and paper; when I turned on the diningroom light to see what in the dark was an unfamiliar lump on the carpet I realized it was vomit. Great. An hour later Herself and I were alerted to Spike's condition by the sound of hacking. This time he vomited on a floor without a rug--way to go, Spikey! But that was followed almost immediately by another bout, on the stairs. Why didn't I carpet my house in brown? What was wrong with me, choosing off-white? And how could there be anything left in Spike to come up? I remembered how quiet he had been all night. Why didn't he tell me he didn't feel good?

Bob wandered in to see what all the fuss was about; he and Spike touched noses and then Bob wandered off again, either not very interested in Spike's condition or figuring that I had the situation in hand, literally, as I was up to my elbows in regurgitated Purina. I called the vet, and Herself and I wrapped Spike in a blanket and brought him in. He spent the day on an IV to rehydrate him and being fussed over and taken care of by professionals, people less distracted than his mother. On my way to work I worried "intestinal blockage," and "feline AIDS," and "surgery" and, mostly, "$$$$$$$$."

Late in the afternoon after work, Herself and I went back to the vet. "He hasn't vomited at all since you brought him in," I was told. Naturally. "Maybe I should have left a piece of my carpet with him to prime the pump," I said to my unsympathetic audience. They hadn't been able to find anything wrong with him, but ran a whole bunch of expensive tests, just in case. Naturally. "He can go home now," they said, and after a long while brought Spike out in a little kitty-cat wheelchair.

No, just kidding. Spike looked relieved to see us and sat exhausted in my arms, fur gone strangely dull and dandruffy, while I paid and signed his release papers and got instructions on caring for him. For my two hundred and twenty-five dollars I also got five pouches of bland cat food that Spike so far will not eat; a tiny bottle of tiny pills, which I am supposed to quarter and give to him every twelve hours, a procedure I am dreading; some laxative gel. "And I want you to call and tell me how he's doing!" said the vet.

Okay. How are you doing, Spikey? I type, Spike watches me. I can hear Bob meowing upstairs. Earlier in the evening I caught him drinking the water from Speedy the turtle's bowl. Hey, only one patient at a time, all right?

Posted by JudyLa at 11:30 PM | Comments (0)