Adventures in Cat Land
Jul. 16th, 2003 07:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dmarleyFor the last two or three days, my older cat, Sylvester, hasn't been acting himself. He's been listless and clingy, wanting to be near me even if it means being within range of The Boo Unit. He's also been allowing Boo to pet him (aka "yanking his fur"), but it's more because he doesn't seem motivated to move away than because of a sudden desire to get friendly with the baby after nine months. He's 13 and no longer a spring chicken, so I decided to take him to the vet.
Now, this simple decision is no longer the relatively easy undertaking it was before the arrival of No. 2 Cat Greebo and the baby. Gone are the days when I can just pop Sylvester in his cage, or not even bother with the cage and use his leash, and zip over to the vet's. Oh, no.
For one thing, the last time I took Sylvester to the vet without also taking Greebo, he freaked out, growled, hissed, spat, and took a swipe at the vet. They had to sedate him before they could examine him. So, it's two cats, two cages, etc. Plus baby.
Loading went fine. I put the kitties in their cages, took them downstairs to the car, then came back up, put Boo in her car seat, took her down, and we were loaded up and ready to go. Piece of cake. Okay, so the temperature's in the mid-90s, but hey, what's a little heat stroke.
At the vet's, I had it all planned. I parked the car, got Boo out of her car seat, put her in the backpack carrier, got a kitty cage in each hand, and voila.
Of course, the vet could find nothing physically wrong with Sylvester. But he's been Sylvester's vet for 13 years, ever since Sylvester was 8 months old, and while Greebo and Boo chased each other around and under the table, Greebo jumping up and down to check on his buddy and Boo trying her best to yank the tassels off the vet's shoes, the vet agreed with me that Sylvester's behavior wasn't normal. So I forked over $100 for blood tests, which luckily I had because I'd been saving money for a trip to my sister's. Don't know what I'm going to do about the trip now, but hey.
Back home, I did the loading in reverse. I took Boo up first, got her settled in her play area, then zoomed back down for the cats. But when I put Greebo down to the open the front door, the sophisticated mechanism of old wire and knitting needles holding the cage door closed gave way, and he squirmed for freedom.
I wasn't too worried at first. I just scooped him up and shoveled him quickly inside the building. But when I opened the door again to get Sylvester and the empty cage inside, Greebo made his break.
I set off after him, leaving Sylvester in the hall and my baby unattended upstairs, remembering frantically all the baby book admonitions about never leaving babies alone even in rooms that have been locked down like Fort Knox (leaving aside the question of how any of these women get their groceries upstairs, but never mind). Greebo had apparently forgotten all of the previous three years of comfort and pampering, because he ran away from me like I was Cruella DeVille looking for a new tabby coat. I finally cornered him under a van and persuaded him that I wasn't some bizarre space alien after his brain, and tucked him under my arm while I hauled Sylvester's cage upstairs. Then it was back down for Greebo's cage, a last trip up two flights in about 100 degrees of humidity, and I was free to collapse on the floor and wheeze.
I'm supposed to find out about Sylvester's blood tests today, and I can't say I'm not nervous. A lot of my friends' cats have died at 12 or 13, and Sylvester has definitely been slowing down the last couple of years.
And now I'm hearing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" over the baby monitor, which means Boo is awake and standing in her crib to push the button on her Sesame Street Edu-tainment Center. And, yes, now she's accompanying the music with "Ba ba ba" and raspberries. So, time to get up. :)
Now, this simple decision is no longer the relatively easy undertaking it was before the arrival of No. 2 Cat Greebo and the baby. Gone are the days when I can just pop Sylvester in his cage, or not even bother with the cage and use his leash, and zip over to the vet's. Oh, no.
For one thing, the last time I took Sylvester to the vet without also taking Greebo, he freaked out, growled, hissed, spat, and took a swipe at the vet. They had to sedate him before they could examine him. So, it's two cats, two cages, etc. Plus baby.
Loading went fine. I put the kitties in their cages, took them downstairs to the car, then came back up, put Boo in her car seat, took her down, and we were loaded up and ready to go. Piece of cake. Okay, so the temperature's in the mid-90s, but hey, what's a little heat stroke.
At the vet's, I had it all planned. I parked the car, got Boo out of her car seat, put her in the backpack carrier, got a kitty cage in each hand, and voila.
Of course, the vet could find nothing physically wrong with Sylvester. But he's been Sylvester's vet for 13 years, ever since Sylvester was 8 months old, and while Greebo and Boo chased each other around and under the table, Greebo jumping up and down to check on his buddy and Boo trying her best to yank the tassels off the vet's shoes, the vet agreed with me that Sylvester's behavior wasn't normal. So I forked over $100 for blood tests, which luckily I had because I'd been saving money for a trip to my sister's. Don't know what I'm going to do about the trip now, but hey.
Back home, I did the loading in reverse. I took Boo up first, got her settled in her play area, then zoomed back down for the cats. But when I put Greebo down to the open the front door, the sophisticated mechanism of old wire and knitting needles holding the cage door closed gave way, and he squirmed for freedom.
I wasn't too worried at first. I just scooped him up and shoveled him quickly inside the building. But when I opened the door again to get Sylvester and the empty cage inside, Greebo made his break.
I set off after him, leaving Sylvester in the hall and my baby unattended upstairs, remembering frantically all the baby book admonitions about never leaving babies alone even in rooms that have been locked down like Fort Knox (leaving aside the question of how any of these women get their groceries upstairs, but never mind). Greebo had apparently forgotten all of the previous three years of comfort and pampering, because he ran away from me like I was Cruella DeVille looking for a new tabby coat. I finally cornered him under a van and persuaded him that I wasn't some bizarre space alien after his brain, and tucked him under my arm while I hauled Sylvester's cage upstairs. Then it was back down for Greebo's cage, a last trip up two flights in about 100 degrees of humidity, and I was free to collapse on the floor and wheeze.
I'm supposed to find out about Sylvester's blood tests today, and I can't say I'm not nervous. A lot of my friends' cats have died at 12 or 13, and Sylvester has definitely been slowing down the last couple of years.
And now I'm hearing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" over the baby monitor, which means Boo is awake and standing in her crib to push the button on her Sesame Street Edu-tainment Center. And, yes, now she's accompanying the music with "Ba ba ba" and raspberries. So, time to get up. :)