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Squeeky, of the Many Vetbills
Yesterday, my mom called me and said, "Squeeky had to go to the doctor today."
"Why," asked the kiffies, "did he fall off the roof, again?"
"No, he couldn't walk."
Squeeky, in his infinite ability to get into every imaginable bad situation, had gotten into a fight. His leg was... well, let's just say that he was doing a great impression of a pirate. Nothing broken or missing, but certainly out of working order.
He'd gotten bitten somewhere on his foreleg, and in the two or so days between it happening and my mother finding the wound and getting him to the vet, it had gotten so infected that he physically could not walk.
Because of the massive amount of pain he was in, and because he is a mean little cuss, getting him into a carrier was impossible. Just picking him up at all lead to flying ball of murder. My mom quickly threw him in a Xerox box, instead, and called my dad home to drive them. My dad made her hold the box the entire way, because Squeeky was reaching his hand through the air hole and swiping at my dad whenever he turned the wheel.
They got to the vet and plunked the box down on the examination table. The sound of a thousand burning hells promptly erupted from the box. The vet, wisely, tossed my mom some leather gardening gloves and said, "You do it." My mom carefully opened the box.
And, because nothing can ever go right when Squeeky is involved, all hell broke loose.
In his mad dash to freedom, Squeeky tore open his inflamed, infected leg, and the entire room-- box, table, people --were quickly and thoroughly covered in blood. My mom grabbed at Squeeky, trying to pin him down. The vet tech, who really should have been doing most of this, ran into the other examination room and hid. The vet stood back, well out of claw range, and tried not to laugh. Finally, my mom got a good grip and held the blood-covered cat down.
The doctor poked and prodded while Squeeky cursed him, his family, and everyone he'd ever met on the street.
"We'll have to do surgery," said the vet, and he boxed Squeeky back up again and took him to the back room to be knocked out. The sounds of the inner levels of hell left the room with the box.
My mom returned a few hours later to a considerably-less-blood-covered box and a hefty vet bill. The infection had, evidently, gone entirely up Squeeky's arm, to the shoulder, and the doctor had spent a good amount of time scrubbing everything clean. Along with a rather impressive bandage and a paper cone, the doctor had also sent home pain pills-- intended for a dog, he cut them in half --and some of the dreaded pink goo. Considering how the vet visit had went, my mother had her doubts about her ability to give Squeeky meds. The vet quickly noted that, if she brought him back to get an antibiotic shot, instead, he'd have to be sedated again. My mom decided then and there which jacket would be sacrificed as Anti-Squeeky Armor.
Squeeky slept through the night. Whatever meds he'd been given at the doctor's office seemed to be working -- at least, for a while. He was up at 5, like normal.
As it stands, now, he still can't walk-- the bandages and the pain are a bit too much --and has been spending most of his time laying, motionless, in the hallway, with his arm in the air. My mom spent the better part of this afternoon chasing Mousie off; once she realized that Squeeky couldn't fight back, Mousie went into full attack mode, and has decided that Squeeky is fair game. Cats, as we all know, are jackasses.
In theory, he'll get his bandages off this Saturday. We'll see if he stays sane that long.
"Why," asked the kiffies, "did he fall off the roof, again?"
"No, he couldn't walk."
Squeeky, in his infinite ability to get into every imaginable bad situation, had gotten into a fight. His leg was... well, let's just say that he was doing a great impression of a pirate. Nothing broken or missing, but certainly out of working order.
He'd gotten bitten somewhere on his foreleg, and in the two or so days between it happening and my mother finding the wound and getting him to the vet, it had gotten so infected that he physically could not walk.
Because of the massive amount of pain he was in, and because he is a mean little cuss, getting him into a carrier was impossible. Just picking him up at all lead to flying ball of murder. My mom quickly threw him in a Xerox box, instead, and called my dad home to drive them. My dad made her hold the box the entire way, because Squeeky was reaching his hand through the air hole and swiping at my dad whenever he turned the wheel.
They got to the vet and plunked the box down on the examination table. The sound of a thousand burning hells promptly erupted from the box. The vet, wisely, tossed my mom some leather gardening gloves and said, "You do it." My mom carefully opened the box.
And, because nothing can ever go right when Squeeky is involved, all hell broke loose.
In his mad dash to freedom, Squeeky tore open his inflamed, infected leg, and the entire room-- box, table, people --were quickly and thoroughly covered in blood. My mom grabbed at Squeeky, trying to pin him down. The vet tech, who really should have been doing most of this, ran into the other examination room and hid. The vet stood back, well out of claw range, and tried not to laugh. Finally, my mom got a good grip and held the blood-covered cat down.
The doctor poked and prodded while Squeeky cursed him, his family, and everyone he'd ever met on the street.
"We'll have to do surgery," said the vet, and he boxed Squeeky back up again and took him to the back room to be knocked out. The sounds of the inner levels of hell left the room with the box.
My mom returned a few hours later to a considerably-less-blood-covered box and a hefty vet bill. The infection had, evidently, gone entirely up Squeeky's arm, to the shoulder, and the doctor had spent a good amount of time scrubbing everything clean. Along with a rather impressive bandage and a paper cone, the doctor had also sent home pain pills-- intended for a dog, he cut them in half --and some of the dreaded pink goo. Considering how the vet visit had went, my mother had her doubts about her ability to give Squeeky meds. The vet quickly noted that, if she brought him back to get an antibiotic shot, instead, he'd have to be sedated again. My mom decided then and there which jacket would be sacrificed as Anti-Squeeky Armor.
Squeeky slept through the night. Whatever meds he'd been given at the doctor's office seemed to be working -- at least, for a while. He was up at 5, like normal.
As it stands, now, he still can't walk-- the bandages and the pain are a bit too much --and has been spending most of his time laying, motionless, in the hallway, with his arm in the air. My mom spent the better part of this afternoon chasing Mousie off; once she realized that Squeeky couldn't fight back, Mousie went into full attack mode, and has decided that Squeeky is fair game. Cats, as we all know, are jackasses.
In theory, he'll get his bandages off this Saturday. We'll see if he stays sane that long.