(no subject)
First, a quick thanks to everyone who wished me sympathies and such yesterday. I really appreciate it.
As it turns out, the answer to yesterday's question, "I'll see if I can do it", appears to be "No, I can't."
Not because of the price. I think I could budget that.
Not because of my phobia of needles. Apparantly I can handle that too (I was a little worried.)
No, the problem is that my cat has apparantly been secretly training at escape artistry for the past several years, and she's not going to let a little thing like having a needle actually stuck inside her, leading to an IV pack stop her from being a champion avoider.
Not only was I completely unable to keep her down long enough to actually start the drip, but when Hugh (with astonishing good nature) agreed to help me by holding her down, the two of us were still beaten.
By a cat.
At wrestling.
I don't even mean that we were too gentle. I had her by the scruff of the neck with one hand while I was trying to manage the drip with the other. He had both hands on her back, impeded only by his need to not block off the drip. And yet... zoom! No cat. IV on table.
It's like a freaking magic act. "Are you watching carefully?"
Next thing you know, there are going to be hundreds of dead cats in my basement.
My humour is a bit morbid tonight. You can probably guess why. But somehow, it is just so, so very Kitkat, that I actually am laughing.
The downshot of it, of course, is that this means I've probably only got a week or two before she gets bad again and it all goes to pot. I'll have to call the vet this weekend and find out. But these are the last memories I'm going to have, and dammit, they are going to be funny ones. Like this catnip fish thing that she stole from the vet's. And I mean stole - they thought it was hers, and didn't know where it was from. She likes it, though.
As it turns out, the answer to yesterday's question, "I'll see if I can do it", appears to be "No, I can't."
Not because of the price. I think I could budget that.
Not because of my phobia of needles. Apparantly I can handle that too (I was a little worried.)
No, the problem is that my cat has apparantly been secretly training at escape artistry for the past several years, and she's not going to let a little thing like having a needle actually stuck inside her, leading to an IV pack stop her from being a champion avoider.
Not only was I completely unable to keep her down long enough to actually start the drip, but when Hugh (with astonishing good nature) agreed to help me by holding her down, the two of us were still beaten.
By a cat.
At wrestling.
I don't even mean that we were too gentle. I had her by the scruff of the neck with one hand while I was trying to manage the drip with the other. He had both hands on her back, impeded only by his need to not block off the drip. And yet... zoom! No cat. IV on table.
It's like a freaking magic act. "Are you watching carefully?"
Next thing you know, there are going to be hundreds of dead cats in my basement.
My humour is a bit morbid tonight. You can probably guess why. But somehow, it is just so, so very Kitkat, that I actually am laughing.
The downshot of it, of course, is that this means I've probably only got a week or two before she gets bad again and it all goes to pot. I'll have to call the vet this weekend and find out. But these are the last memories I'm going to have, and dammit, they are going to be funny ones. Like this catnip fish thing that she stole from the vet's. And I mean stole - they thought it was hers, and didn't know where it was from. She likes it, though.