Life is so weird.
I don't even know where to start. Jacob's vet trip, which I thought would take a coupla hours max, took all freaking day. They couldn't get him to pee, so they gave him subcutaneous fluids. Then they still couldn't get him to pee, so they stuck a needle into his bladder and got a urine sample that way. Then he peed.
When I was finally able to pick him up, they knew pretty much nothing. No crystals which means it's not cystitis, and no bacteria or white blood cell weirdness, which means it's not an infection, although the vet gave me antibiotics anyway (who knows why).
There was glucose in his urine, which, yes, can mean diabetes, although it's also a fairly common symptom in cats who are completely stressed out. And since I'm sure the reason he couldn't pee was that he was completely freaked out, what do you think I expect the $115.00 blood test will show? Bubkes. But I let them do it anyway, just in case.
So I bring him home, and, thanks to the subcu fluids, he pees all over the carrier. If you recall, this all started because he was peeing blood, so when we get home and I open the carrier, he comes bounding out, covered in blood, and races around the apartment, leaving bloody little footprints everywhere. I recapture him and clean him up as best as I can, which of course leaves me covered in blood and urine. Just the scents I love to wear when going out to dinner with my Mom.
So I head out to meet Mom and hopefully de-stress for a bit. I'm about a block and a half away from my parents' house, and who do you think I see standing there in the street? H.W.S.R.N. H.W.S.R.N., who's been back in town for nine months now with nary a phone call. H.W.S.R.N., who left town two years ago without so much as a goodbye. H.W.S.R.N., who broke my heart to clattering bits* once upon a time.
And what did I do? I pulled over, got out, and said hello. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, and chatted for all of three minutes. He's apparently just as depressed as ever, and just as uninterested in spending any time with me. The friend he was waiting for pulled up; I asked if he knew how to get in touch with me and he said he did, and then I said goodbye and left. I no longer kid myself that he'll actually call, or even that he was being truthful about still having my number. It's too bad, but it is what it is. I'm much more struck by the odd timing and circumstance of seeing him than by any sort of emotional connection.
So then I went to my parents' house and collapsed on the living room floor. My Dad came downstairs and, in his tactless way, said "is your cat dead?" I said no, and asked how he would have felt had the answer to his incredibly thoughtless question been different.
The tiny bit of good news: I picked up a new roll of film and will upload pictures soon. And then I will sit on top of Jacob and throw a pill down his throat. The results of the bloodwork should be in tomorrow.
*tip o' the pen to the infamous Dorothy Parker
When I was finally able to pick him up, they knew pretty much nothing. No crystals which means it's not cystitis, and no bacteria or white blood cell weirdness, which means it's not an infection, although the vet gave me antibiotics anyway (who knows why).
There was glucose in his urine, which, yes, can mean diabetes, although it's also a fairly common symptom in cats who are completely stressed out. And since I'm sure the reason he couldn't pee was that he was completely freaked out, what do you think I expect the $115.00 blood test will show? Bubkes. But I let them do it anyway, just in case.
So I bring him home, and, thanks to the subcu fluids, he pees all over the carrier. If you recall, this all started because he was peeing blood, so when we get home and I open the carrier, he comes bounding out, covered in blood, and races around the apartment, leaving bloody little footprints everywhere. I recapture him and clean him up as best as I can, which of course leaves me covered in blood and urine. Just the scents I love to wear when going out to dinner with my Mom.
So I head out to meet Mom and hopefully de-stress for a bit. I'm about a block and a half away from my parents' house, and who do you think I see standing there in the street? H.W.S.R.N. H.W.S.R.N., who's been back in town for nine months now with nary a phone call. H.W.S.R.N., who left town two years ago without so much as a goodbye. H.W.S.R.N., who broke my heart to clattering bits* once upon a time.
And what did I do? I pulled over, got out, and said hello. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, and chatted for all of three minutes. He's apparently just as depressed as ever, and just as uninterested in spending any time with me. The friend he was waiting for pulled up; I asked if he knew how to get in touch with me and he said he did, and then I said goodbye and left. I no longer kid myself that he'll actually call, or even that he was being truthful about still having my number. It's too bad, but it is what it is. I'm much more struck by the odd timing and circumstance of seeing him than by any sort of emotional connection.
So then I went to my parents' house and collapsed on the living room floor. My Dad came downstairs and, in his tactless way, said "is your cat dead?" I said no, and asked how he would have felt had the answer to his incredibly thoughtless question been different.
The tiny bit of good news: I picked up a new roll of film and will upload pictures soon. And then I will sit on top of Jacob and throw a pill down his throat. The results of the bloodwork should be in tomorrow.
*tip o' the pen to the infamous Dorothy Parker