State of the Mocus.
Tazendra's doing well. We took her for a checkup today to see if her heart and liver are getting better or worse. She's been more herself since we've been medicating her. She's jumping much more easily now, so whatever was impairing her vision is improving or she has adjusted to it. She's put on just a little weight and she's been grooming herself a little better.
She was really bitchy at the vet's and they couldn't get a blood pressure reading they trusted, so we're waiting on bloodwork and if that comes back showing improvement, we will assume her blood pressure meds are working. Otherwise she gets another pill, which I am sure she will be happy about, as it will mean an extra treat every evening. Joy! She alread comes and hobgoblins at me when it's time to medicate her. She knows the deal.
They ultrasounded her. Her heart has showed some improvement, apparently, which is obviously a good sign. All we're waiting on are the liver enzyme levels, which should come in tomorrow.
She took it all pretty well, though she was crankier than usual about the whole thing. Still, she came home and followed me straight into the bathroom with this "I believe you promised me treats?" look on her face and proceeded to tell me, verbally, that she wanted them Right Now. She has already forgiven me for the car trip, and is purring at the foot of the bed.
I am routinely told that Tazendra is a beautiful cat, but I am never told that she is sweet or good or adorable. She's not a sweet cat, but she's sweet to me. I often lament that nobody else sees the side of her that I see. Nobody else gets the snuggling and the gentle tap-tapping on my arm to get my attention, or the pulling at my sleeve when she wants something. Nobody else gets the stinky britches in the face and a hot, fuzzy kitty tummy in one hand and furry, purry ribs in the other. She doesn't come to other people when they sing and lay in their laps. She doesn't caterwaul like a Siamese but nobody could ever accuse her of not making her opinion known; nobody else gets the little contented grunts and bleats that are the most adorable thing she does. She doesn't make love to strangers' shoes and handbags and random items of clothing like Fish does, she doesn't give finger kisses and concerned quacks and upside-down-squeaks like Sif. Other people and cats are things she tolerates at best.
She can't hunt, she doesn't play. She's a terrible cat. No good at being a pet, no good at being a cat. I am so lucky to have her. We're a pretty good match. We love each other, no matter how rotten we are at being what other people would have us be.
She was really bitchy at the vet's and they couldn't get a blood pressure reading they trusted, so we're waiting on bloodwork and if that comes back showing improvement, we will assume her blood pressure meds are working. Otherwise she gets another pill, which I am sure she will be happy about, as it will mean an extra treat every evening. Joy! She alread comes and hobgoblins at me when it's time to medicate her. She knows the deal.
They ultrasounded her. Her heart has showed some improvement, apparently, which is obviously a good sign. All we're waiting on are the liver enzyme levels, which should come in tomorrow.
She took it all pretty well, though she was crankier than usual about the whole thing. Still, she came home and followed me straight into the bathroom with this "I believe you promised me treats?" look on her face and proceeded to tell me, verbally, that she wanted them Right Now. She has already forgiven me for the car trip, and is purring at the foot of the bed.
I am routinely told that Tazendra is a beautiful cat, but I am never told that she is sweet or good or adorable. She's not a sweet cat, but she's sweet to me. I often lament that nobody else sees the side of her that I see. Nobody else gets the snuggling and the gentle tap-tapping on my arm to get my attention, or the pulling at my sleeve when she wants something. Nobody else gets the stinky britches in the face and a hot, fuzzy kitty tummy in one hand and furry, purry ribs in the other. She doesn't come to other people when they sing and lay in their laps. She doesn't caterwaul like a Siamese but nobody could ever accuse her of not making her opinion known; nobody else gets the little contented grunts and bleats that are the most adorable thing she does. She doesn't make love to strangers' shoes and handbags and random items of clothing like Fish does, she doesn't give finger kisses and concerned quacks and upside-down-squeaks like Sif. Other people and cats are things she tolerates at best.
She can't hunt, she doesn't play. She's a terrible cat. No good at being a pet, no good at being a cat. I am so lucky to have her. We're a pretty good match. We love each other, no matter how rotten we are at being what other people would have us be.