Hypochondriac Kittens
When you call the vet to make an appointment, the receptionist, after hearing you give your surname, shouldn't say, "Oh, is that you, Samantha? Who are we seeing today?"
Benj has blogged about Fishlegs' recurrent bouts of sickness.
He blogged about Leela's amoebic dysentery.
He didn't blog about the time that Marty, asserting his alpha-cat status, scratched his little brother's eyeball.
Nor the time, only a week later, when Marty scratched his big brother's eyeball.
And, had he been blogging back then, he may have written about Imogen's diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after spending a week in the World's Worst Cattery, where she was housed next to a cage of rottweilers.
Today, however, I took Mr Marty to the vet due to the explosive diarrhea he's been suffering from for the past week. And has now passed on to two of the others. (I noticed that it could potentially be a bigger problem than I thought when, after having been woken up by horrendously loud squelching sounds accompanying his bowel movements, I noticed that his anus was red, pissed off, and protruding about an inch further than it should).
All of my cats seem to enjoy fucking around in the vet's office. Leela likes to jump on his computer's keyboard and try to open the jar of treats he keeps for good patients. Fishlegs likes to piss in his central-heating vent. Marty kept up the tradition by splashing about in the sink for a while, then trailing his wet pawprints across some important looking documents.
We have 5 syringes to give to 5 uncooperative cats filled with (and I quote) 'a pleasant caramel flavour'. Maybe I missed something, but since when did cats like eating caramel? Shouldn't it be anchovy flavoured or something? This is some form of pre-emptive strike to be started before the poo results come back from the labs. Yep, I supplied the vet with a plastic bag full of excrement. He was pleased with this gift, and supplemented it with what he found on a cotton bud he inserted in Marty's anus.
Also, there is to be further food segregation. Fishlegs is to continue his I'm-a-fat-bastard-with-calcite-in-my-pee diet, which is currently served to him in the bathroom. The 3 affected by the mysterious poopy ailment are to eat a special hypo-allergenic variety of biscuit until their digestive tracts recover. I figure they can continue eating in the dining room as usual. Idgie must also eat the hypo-allergenic kibbles, in case she gets sick, too, but must be segregated from the ones who already have the runs. I don't know where she'll eat. I don't much care. Benj can be the dinnertime funmaster. Surprise, baby!
Cats are great. They're like sickly retarded children who never stop being dependent on you, eat your magazines, and occasionally try to kill you. And, being obviously mentally subnormal myself, I really do love them.
Benj has blogged about Fishlegs' recurrent bouts of sickness.
He blogged about Leela's amoebic dysentery.
He didn't blog about the time that Marty, asserting his alpha-cat status, scratched his little brother's eyeball.
Nor the time, only a week later, when Marty scratched his big brother's eyeball.
And, had he been blogging back then, he may have written about Imogen's diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after spending a week in the World's Worst Cattery, where she was housed next to a cage of rottweilers.
Today, however, I took Mr Marty to the vet due to the explosive diarrhea he's been suffering from for the past week. And has now passed on to two of the others. (I noticed that it could potentially be a bigger problem than I thought when, after having been woken up by horrendously loud squelching sounds accompanying his bowel movements, I noticed that his anus was red, pissed off, and protruding about an inch further than it should).
All of my cats seem to enjoy fucking around in the vet's office. Leela likes to jump on his computer's keyboard and try to open the jar of treats he keeps for good patients. Fishlegs likes to piss in his central-heating vent. Marty kept up the tradition by splashing about in the sink for a while, then trailing his wet pawprints across some important looking documents.
We have 5 syringes to give to 5 uncooperative cats filled with (and I quote) 'a pleasant caramel flavour'. Maybe I missed something, but since when did cats like eating caramel? Shouldn't it be anchovy flavoured or something? This is some form of pre-emptive strike to be started before the poo results come back from the labs. Yep, I supplied the vet with a plastic bag full of excrement. He was pleased with this gift, and supplemented it with what he found on a cotton bud he inserted in Marty's anus.
Also, there is to be further food segregation. Fishlegs is to continue his I'm-a-fat-bastard-with-calcite-in-my-pee diet, which is currently served to him in the bathroom. The 3 affected by the mysterious poopy ailment are to eat a special hypo-allergenic variety of biscuit until their digestive tracts recover. I figure they can continue eating in the dining room as usual. Idgie must also eat the hypo-allergenic kibbles, in case she gets sick, too, but must be segregated from the ones who already have the runs. I don't know where she'll eat. I don't much care. Benj can be the dinnertime funmaster. Surprise, baby!
Cats are great. They're like sickly retarded children who never stop being dependent on you, eat your magazines, and occasionally try to kill you. And, being obviously mentally subnormal myself, I really do love them.
posted by Samantha at 12:21 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home