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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.
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The mental image of a tiny cat hand sticking maliciously out of a box made me lol. :3 I hope your angry infected cat feels better soon! Any chance you guys can lock the cats in separate parts of the house?
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My mom is, so far, locking Squeeky in her bedroom during the day, when she's out, but as both cats are used to having free run of the place, it's a little difficult. Further, as the cats all eat together, any change in where/when they're fed can cause all sorts of holy havoc. It's like living with 3-year-olds, I swear.
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lol, geez. He wouldn't accept his own bowl of food in a quiet room? maybe some blankets and a box? Well take heart, he can't feel TOO bad if he's still up for being an asshole. XD
Seriously, good luck with the infection. I think Cleo had to go back more than once to get hers drained before it was gone, plus medication, and that was ultimately only a (gross, fluid-filled, draining out onto towels as she slept after each visit) fairly small bump on her side. I've got my fingers crossed that you guys don't have a long ordeal on your hands, especially given that you have a bastard cat. :3
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It's more like if we don't feed them all together, the other two get to thinking that they own the place, and will stomp his ass twice as hard when he gets well. So everyone still has to eat in the kitchen. Cat politics. ( ._.)
I've got my fingers crossed that you guys don't have a long ordeal on your hands, especially given that you have a bastard cat.
Amen.
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THUD!
"...Meow!"
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I'm sorry, your saga of blood and rage and doom made me laugh. I can totally see every bit of it.
Hopefully he recuperates with sanity intact--his and your mom's. :)
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freeridiculously expensive entertainment. :3Squeeky is very well versed in the rage. His favorite hobby is actively spraying the neighbor's pitbull, just because it makes noise. He is, admittedly, not a nice cat.
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Shit fire the stuff cats do to each other is TERRIFYING. Also, the stuff through which they put their owners. Oh dear God.
*gentle hugs for all, except Squeeky, who might murder all*
-§parky
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I do have a firm belief that Squeeky likely gave as good as he got, which is something. Though, I also sincerely hope that the other cat's owner has some spare cash lying around, because holy crap was that an expensive vet visit. I can't imagine what the other cat is going through. :/