Thanks, all y’all, for your well-wishes for Miz Poo. I picked her up yesterday morning after I dropped the kittens off at the other vet to be spayed and neutered. She was doped up to the gills, but seemed glad to see me. The vet said that it would probably be best to keep her crated until her drain comes out next Monday, but there’s just no way I could see trying to keep a portly Poo in a little crate. I set up a litter box and some blankets and a bowl of food and water in the upstairs bathroom and put her in there. She hated it.
She was wearing a cone collar when I picked her up because like I mentioned, she has a drain in place and without something to stop her, she’ll try to pull it out, and to lick at her stitches. I went up and sat with her for an hour at a time several times yesterday, and each time she would slowly climb into my lap and sit there while I petted her. Eventually she’d purr.
My poor Poo.
When Fred got home, he called the vet’s office to see if there was a particular reason they’d put a cone collar on her instead of a collar like the one they’d put on Sugarbutt back when he was having issues with his foot and had to be restrained from licking. They told him they’d tried one on her, but she was still able to reach her back end. He hung up and told me we should give it a try anyway.
We put the collar on her and she didn’t like it, but in my opinion it was better than the cone collar – at least with the no-cone collar, there’s nothing right there in her face. Fred sat with her on the couch for a while, and then I sat with her on my lap while we were watching TV. She couldn’t get in a comfortable position with the no-cone collar on, though, so we switched her back to the cone, and she mostly snoozed the entire time we watched TV. By the end of the evening she was moving around better than she had been, so that’s a good thing, right? I put her in the guest bedroom, and she flopped down in a cat bed and went to sleep, and didn’t make a noise all night long.
She’s on pain medication for the next few days, so I’m hoping that that will keep her doped up enough that all she’ll want to do is sleep, at least until some good healing gets underway.
Every night at bedtime, after Fred and I spent time with the kittens, we go into my bedroom and lay in there in the dark, talking and petting Kara and whichever cat comes along.
(Usually Mister Boogers tromps across the bed and then digs frantically at the covers until Fred holds them up. Then Mister Boogers climbs under the covers, curls up next to Fred’s legs, and then if Fred dares to move even the slightest bit, Mister Boogers bitches at him for having THE UTTER NERVE.)
After half an hour or so of cuddling, talking, and hanging out, Fred kisses me goodnight and goes to his room.
Now, very important point here: Fred’s door doesn’t close right, so to prevent the cats from getting into his room during the day, there’s a hook on the outside of the door. To prevent the cats from getting inside his room at night (he’s a light sleeper and often unable to get back to sleep once he’s been woken up) there’s a hook on the inside of the door.
So Saturday night, Fred toddled off to bed. I wasn’t tired, though, so I decided to stay up and read. Half an hour later, I was deep into my book when I heard Fred cry out frantically from his room. I can’t swear one hundred percent to it, but it sounded very much like he said “Help!”, and like I said, he sounded frantic.
I jumped out of bed immediately and went to the door to his room. I was mostly hoping that he was just dreaming, but as you can imagine I was pretty freaked out.
“Hey,” I said in a low voice, knocking lightly on his door. “Hey.” Usually this is more than enough to wake him up. He didn’t respond. I knocked slightly harder and when there was no response, I grabbed the door handle and pulled on it.
At this point, I was completely certain that, in the midst of a fatal heart attack he’d summoned the strength to cry out “Help!” and then died. After pulling on the door handle as hard as I could, I resumed knocking on the door, only this time instead of knocking I was pounding and instead of quietly saying “Hey,” I was bellowing “HEY!” I don’t know how long this went on, maybe ten seconds and I was just on the verge of going downstairs to find something to break the door down with, when I finally heard a disoriented “Huh?” from Fred.
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” I bellowed. “ARE YOU OKAY?”
Sounding slightly annoyed, Fred said “What?”
“OPEN THE DOOR!” I yelled.
Finally, he stumbled to the door, opened it, and blinked at me. I felt his forehead (I don’t know, it seemed like the thing to do) and made sure he wasn’t in the midst of a heart attack, told him briefly what happened, and let him go back to bed.
I listened at his door a few times, making sure I could hear him breathing, before I went to sleep.
That night, I had an anxiety dream. My anxiety dreams have taken a turn these past few years. It used to be that in my anxiety dreams, I’d dream that Fred had died. I didn’t have them often, maybe a few times a year, but I always woke up crying. Since we bought this house, my anxiety dreams have taken the form wherein we decided on the spur of the moment to sell this house and – when the dreams take place – we’re living in a soulless McMansion on a postage-stamp piece of land. We are always completely miserable, can’t understand what got into our heads, and are scheming to sell the McMansion and buy this house back.
I’d like to stop with the anxiety dreams, thank you.
The next morning I gave Fred hell (“Sleep WELL, did you?”) and made him reposition the hook on his door so that NEXT TIME he calls out in his sleep, I can open the damn door and get to him instead of just standing there like an idiot, pounding on the door, and bellowing to wake him up.
With the weather turning so much cooler lately (it’s supposed to go down below freezing tonight), the wasps have started looking for a warm place to hang out. They think my house would do quite nicely.
Yesterday, 17 wasps came into the house. They mostly come into the dining room and computer room – I think they’re coming down the chimney – and I’ve gotten to the point where instead of getting out the Dyson hand held vacuum, it’s become easier for me to just grab a piece of paper towel (I have a folded square of paper towel on a corner of my desk for just this purpose), snatch the wasp up, open the door, and toss the wasp out. The wasps usually take flight and fly directly away from the house, though I’ve wondered if the same three wasps are coming into the house over and over again.
I should paint tiny numbers on their legs so I can track them.
So when I grabbed wasp number 17 yesterday, I assumed all would go as usual, I’d open the door, toss the wasp, and it’d fly off as fast as its wings could carry it.
Not so much. Instead, wasp number 17 flew away from me for a very short distance, got confused, flew back at me and tried to land ON MY FACE.
I think the dance I immediately performed would be best described as a jig. I flailed around, arms flying everywhere, screaming some wordless sound of horror.
Luckily no one else was around.
The wasp rethought its flight plan and eventually turned around and headed back out toward freedom, and apparently sent out word to his wasp brethren that our house is not so much the place to be.
I don’t expect that’s the last wasp I’ll see in the house, but it certainly would be nice to NOT have another 17-wasp day, please.
The kittens could not have been any easier to put in the carriers for their trip to the vet yesterday. In fact, I walked in to find that Delmar was already sitting in one of the carriers. He came running over to me when I walked in, and I picked him up and put him back in the carrier and closed the top (our carriers are the kind that open at one end and on top), grabbed Lem and put him in the carrier, then put the two girls in the other carrier. They all looked confused and worried, and they were obviously scared during the car trip, but they behaved themselves very well when they were being weighed. Quite the difference from their first trip to the vet!
I picked them up last night, and they were dopey and groggy and I thought for sure they’d never forgive me, but an hour after I got them home I went upstairs and Delmar and Lem were all over me, rubbing against me, purring, telling me how awesome I am. Marion and Claudette stayed on the cat tree and let me know that they didn’t think I was awesome at ALL. That’s okay; they’ll forgive me soon enough. And if not, I can always buy their love with a plate of chicken baby food!
I completely forgot that this kitty condo – located in a corner of the guest bedroom – was there until I happened to glance over one day and saw Newt all settled in.
Previously
2007: I have no idea on earth how we’d ever tell if a chicken was insane, since they seem to lean toward The Crazy even when they’re (we assume) perfectly normal.
2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.
2004: In case you were wondering, we are officially Crazy Cat People.
2003: I always look like a fucking lunatic when I take my own picture.
2002: (Is it just me who always thinks of Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally saying “I would be pleased to partake of your pecan piiiiiiiiiiiiie” when I hear, say, or read the word “partake”?)
2001: (For the record, her verdict was that the real-life prostitutes were “creepy”.)
2000: No entry.
1999: And going blind would just suck.
Aww, poor Miz Poo! I hope she heals really well. I had a cat with a broken leg at the beginning of this year, and she spent three months in a crate – just like your vet told you to do with her. I have large dogs, so I put her in one of their crates, which worked very well. There was room for her litter pan, a large blanket for her to sleep on, and her food and water dishes. She adjusted really well to being in there, and in fact will still climb in there to just sit sometimes, even now that her leg is fine.
And I’m not sure why I told you that, since you didn’t put Poo in one. 🙂 Sorry, it’s early. Still, I hope Miz Poo heals well, and that this doesn’t come back.
Oh god, those stupid collars are the worst. I cannot bear to make my kids wear the cone collars. It seems like inhumane torture, even if it is for their own good.
Damn Fred for freaking you out like that. Men!
oh my goodness you’re killing me with cute today. Poor little Poo. Please give her a (gentle) squeeze for me. I hope she makes a quick recovery so she can get back to her exciting non-cone-headed life. “I should paint tiny numbers on their legs so I can track them” should be your tag line for this date next year. It made me laugh so hard. and all that orange kitty goodness is making me want to go home and squeeeeeeeze Jack.
What are you, Jainist? Squish the wasps.
Awww, poor baby. I found that after a day or so, Booie got used to the cone, too. It’s soft enough that she can lie down on it and it just bends. The only sad (okay, funny) part is when the edge of it catches on a door frame or something and she can’t figure out what’s going on and she just keeps banging into it.
Poor Miz Poo. I hope she feels much better real soon.
I’ll be the first to say it. Maybe it wasn’t Fred who called out in the night. Maybe it was your house ghost? HA! just kidding of course.
Ok, that does it. I am going to have to get me another orange kitty. Who knows when it’ll happen but dangit, I’m gonna get one. I miss my baby.
Oh Miz Poo, feel better!
That is one unhappy Poo. Hope you feel better very soon, sweet girl!
I hope Miz Poo gets all better:( She is my favorite and it broke my heart to see her in that collar with those teary eyes. Kills me!
Poor Miz Poo: that little face! Get better soon, kitty girl.
Poor little Poo…Please give her a hug and kiss for me.
Poor Miz Poo. Hoping she is feeling better very soon and the drugs are keeping her drugged up and sleepy.
Awww, poor Miz Poo! The kitty crew sends healing headbutts her way! That picture of her with the cone collar on just breaks my heart!
Poor Miz Poo. Hope she feels better soon.
Poor Miz Poo. I never figured she’d need a drain in her ouchie. Poor thing. She’s in good hands. Make sure to take a bunch of pictures to show us when she’s being bad. ;-P First her lip and now this…
My uncle yells out in his sleep all the time. It’s gotten to the point that he wife doesn’t even do anything. That man has some really scary dreams. I actually heard him when I was kid and visiting them. I hope Fred was able to get back to sleep.
I only had three hours of sleep, so let’s all agree to blame the exhaustion for what happened when I looked at the first picture of Miz Poo: I burst into tears.
*sob*
Poor baby.
I agree with both Aimee (painting tiny numbers on their legs is a HILARIOUS image) and Lori (just squish ’em).
Poor Poo. 🙁
Hope Miz Poo heals up well and quickly.
“trying to keep a portly Poo in a little crate” made me smile. Yeah, that probably isn’t the best plan…
Good luck with your wasp-painting project
Ms. Poo is such a good kitty. I feel so bad she has such an ongoing relationship with your Vet, not so much lately, but in general. I’m glad she’s resting comfy now, and hopes she’s back to her normal self soon. (((((hugs))))))