2001-11-14

The Job of the feline set

So, in regards to Miss Whitey B. and her myriad health problems, we're utterly freaked out. Every flinch or odd grimace on Whitey's part sets off a flurry of tears, pokes and prods. The poor thing cannot be left in peace; I'm convinced that every time she slinks off to nap under the sofa, she's made her decision to go die someplace where Kev and I won't keen and wail over her. As it stands, we're both battling over who gets to give her lap time at night, stroking and rubbing and mauling her while secretly imploring, "Purr, damn it � purr!"

The big problem is with her kidneys...they're just plain giving out. The thyroid situation, as it turns out, is completely treatable; we're just not allowed to do anything about it until we get her hydrated, hence the sub-cutaneous fluid injections we have to give her every other day. The antibiotic for her festering tail, meanwhile, is giving her diarrhea.

I must say, though, that she's taking it all remarkably well. She's the Job of the feline set. With every jab of the needle and every force-feeding of what must be thoroughly unpleasant-tasting "banana flavored" antibiotic, she springs back with remarkable speed. She's quite forgiving about it all, actually. We don't deserve her.

lisamcc at 2:00 p.m.

previous | next