My fat friend has been poorly since last weekend. We thought at first it was the heat but then we had a cool day on Tuesday and he didn’t get any perkier. Still seemed to be eating and drinking, pooping and peeing but…not perky. By Wednesday night, it was obvious he’d need to see the Vet.
I called first thing in the morning on Thursday but they couldn’t fit him in until today. He didn’t feel well at all today and I began to look forward to hauling him across town to see the Good Doctor.
Into the carrier he went. There was a soft towel in the bottom of it and some branches of catnip strewn about. He cried a little all the way there, of course. Unlike his brother–who is a big yowling cryberry–he was such a good boy. And that’s another reason I knew he needed some help.
After blood work and temperature-taking and some fluids, the Good Doctor believes she has discovered what it is. He gets to take a pill now for flea control and is on some antibiotics for a parasite.
As we waited in the small room for his test results, it was not lost on me that we could be the beginning of a joke. A Witch brought her black cat to the vet… I didn’t get any farther than that, though. I’ll leave you to create a joke around it.
He came home and ate some salmon with gravy and rested…and then I gave him his pill. He is good about pills and it was done with the minimum of both discomfort and indignity. Now he is resting again and occasionally glancing in my direction as though he expects more outrage.
I am having a cold beer and reading a book–that will be the extent of my outrage for the rest of the day.