daemonluna (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
daemonluna) wrote2005-05-12 11:30 pm
daemonluna) wrote2005-05-12 11:30 pm
Entry tags:
The thrills and joys of pet ownership
So. Yesterday morning, at about three-thirty am, I am woken by a small cat climbing all over my head, purring nervously. She then proceeds to wander around, stopping at random intervals to gag a lot, and coughs up a very large hairball, complete with a stomach-ful of partially-digested kibble.
Yeah. Fun. But wait, we're not done yet! Cue more gagging, and sporadic vomiting up bile. At five, I get up, smear hairball medicine on her paw (the theory being that she'll lick it off, because dirty paw! and fish-flavour!). She flicks it off, runs away, and Trout eats it. Whatever. I'll try again in the morning.
Eight am,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
troutkitty gets up, smears hairball stuff on small cat's paw. This time, she smears it off on the wall. More gagging and bile commences.
Ten am, I drag myself out of bed. Hairball medicine, lather, rinse, repeat. This time, she immediately runs off and jumps into the litterbox. I find her sitting on the bed, looking truly sorry for herself, litter-encrusted gunk on her paw. This time, I wipe it off.
More gagging, on and off. By about three, when I thought she'd stopped and then, whoops, guess not, we make a trip to the vet. And as soon as I get her into the carrier and into the car, it becomes apparent that there is nothing at all wrong with her lungs. She sounds like we've just killed her best friend. She sounds like the world is a horrible, terrible place (which it may very well be if you're a small cat with a very upset tummy). She sounds truly pathetic and mournful, and continues to do so--even when we get stuck at a railway crossing--all the way to the vet.
We get in, we wait for a minute and a half, and the nice vet-lady pokes and prods Minnow. Who purrs. And purrs. And flirts shamelessly, and rubs against her, and me, and the table, and the chair, and... And it is determined that she has not swallowed plastic or string or elastic bands or bits of houseplant (because we do not have houseplants, because the cats immediately take that as their own, personal salad bar)... No, she's just thrown her system all out of whack with the huge hairball.
Seventy dollars later, I am relieved, the cat is howling in her carrier again, and we have medication and some special food for the next few days. We head home.troutkitty is also relieved, and Trout himself is very worried because we took his kitten away.
It takes two of us to hold her down and get the medicine into her.
She immediately sulks off to her favourite place in the closet, and throws up a few more times just to get even.
This morning, we get up and the cat is nowhere to be found. Finally unearth cat from way back behind everything, and give her more medication. Much thrashing and attempts to simultaneously spit out and gnaw off the syringe ensue.
By the third time round this afternoon, she is clearly on the mend. How can I tell, you ask? The first go at it, more of the medicine went on me than in the cat. Not that I blame her, it smells awful and probably tastes even worse. It takes at least three hands to hold her and a fourth to get it down her throat.
She's currently sulking horribly and is positive that we all hate her and are out to get her. Poor wee beastie. And we get to do it all over again tomorrow...
(Really, I'm very-very-very relieved that it wasn't something more serious. But the look on her face when we try and get that gunk down her throat...)
Yeah. Fun. But wait, we're not done yet! Cue more gagging, and sporadic vomiting up bile. At five, I get up, smear hairball medicine on her paw (the theory being that she'll lick it off, because dirty paw! and fish-flavour!). She flicks it off, runs away, and Trout eats it. Whatever. I'll try again in the morning.
Eight am,
troutkitty gets up, smears hairball stuff on small cat's paw. This time, she smears it off on the wall. More gagging and bile commences.Ten am, I drag myself out of bed. Hairball medicine, lather, rinse, repeat. This time, she immediately runs off and jumps into the litterbox. I find her sitting on the bed, looking truly sorry for herself, litter-encrusted gunk on her paw. This time, I wipe it off.
More gagging, on and off. By about three, when I thought she'd stopped and then, whoops, guess not, we make a trip to the vet. And as soon as I get her into the carrier and into the car, it becomes apparent that there is nothing at all wrong with her lungs. She sounds like we've just killed her best friend. She sounds like the world is a horrible, terrible place (which it may very well be if you're a small cat with a very upset tummy). She sounds truly pathetic and mournful, and continues to do so--even when we get stuck at a railway crossing--all the way to the vet.
We get in, we wait for a minute and a half, and the nice vet-lady pokes and prods Minnow. Who purrs. And purrs. And flirts shamelessly, and rubs against her, and me, and the table, and the chair, and... And it is determined that she has not swallowed plastic or string or elastic bands or bits of houseplant (because we do not have houseplants, because the cats immediately take that as their own, personal salad bar)... No, she's just thrown her system all out of whack with the huge hairball.
Seventy dollars later, I am relieved, the cat is howling in her carrier again, and we have medication and some special food for the next few days. We head home.
troutkitty is also relieved, and Trout himself is very worried because we took his kitten away.It takes two of us to hold her down and get the medicine into her.
She immediately sulks off to her favourite place in the closet, and throws up a few more times just to get even.
This morning, we get up and the cat is nowhere to be found. Finally unearth cat from way back behind everything, and give her more medication. Much thrashing and attempts to simultaneously spit out and gnaw off the syringe ensue.
By the third time round this afternoon, she is clearly on the mend. How can I tell, you ask? The first go at it, more of the medicine went on me than in the cat. Not that I blame her, it smells awful and probably tastes even worse. It takes at least three hands to hold her and a fourth to get it down her throat.
She's currently sulking horribly and is positive that we all hate her and are out to get her. Poor wee beastie. And we get to do it all over again tomorrow...
(Really, I'm very-very-very relieved that it wasn't something more serious. But the look on her face when we try and get that gunk down her throat...)