The black cat went for a post-operative checkup this morning with the vet. He has been walking around the house more than he did, though still with a pronounced limp, and jumped up on to the kitchen table the other day, and engaged the grey tabby in a staring and growling match, so we were optimistic that he was on the mend. He yowled in the back of the car all the way to Colchester, which he has not done on his previous three visits, and once in the surgery limped obligingly about the consulting room so that the vet could see his gait, and purred nicely. The vet was initially impressed that he was so much more mobile, and then concerned that the limp might be due to the joint slipping rather than the cat putting his weight down awkwardly on that leg, and then reassured that the suture was still in the right place. He has gained 200g in weight, but lost muscle from lack of activity. We were prescribed another bottle of anti-inflammatories, and told that in another couple of weeks he could probably go outside under supervision, and to bring him back again in a month. She warned us that while she was always keen to get each cruciate ligament patient back to perfect condition, he might always have a slight limp, say one on a scale of one to ten. That sounded fine to me. As long as he isn't in pain and can move around freely that would count as a success.
I'm very impressed by the extent of the aftercare vets provide. The cat saw the vet who carried out the operation two weeks after surgery, and again today which is five weeks since the op, and she wants him back in another month. The Systems Administrator and I have both had surgery in the past, and all that either of us got was one follow-up appointment four weeks after the event. We didn't get anti-inflammatories either (or screening for deep vein thrombosis, or stockings to prevent it, or all sorts of things that you are supposed to get nowadays. The S.A.'s experience of treatment for a fractured knee cartilage was especially unfortunate as it was done under the company health scheme, who booked a London hospital. The S.A. was sharing a room with an elderly patient, breathing very heavily and apparently on the verge of death, and I received a plaintive call mid-evening on the day of the op to say could I come now, please. I managed to find my way to the hospital in St Johns Wood in the dark, which I thought was good going, and the S.A. hopped at great speed down the steps of the Whittington. On the way home, just as we passed the M25, the exhause fell off my car. We rattled thunderously home for the last forty miles at about 30mph, vibrating hideously. I suggested that the S. A. could pretend we were in a damaged bomber limping back from a raid over Germany, but I don't think that helped ).
The cats have adapted pretty well to the shut inner door, and know to hang around by it when they want to go in or out. The fat tabby still gets confused that it must be a trap, and dashes out of it when it's opened, then remembers that actually she wants to be inside. The black cat doesn't try to rush the door, so he must understand at some level that he couldn't cope outside at the moment. He does lie around with his eyes open, looking bored. When he was going outside all he did for great hunks of the day was lie around in the long grass or under a bush sleeping, and the big tabby and our ginger happily lie around with him in the house, eyes shut and happily asleep. The difference must be that they know they can go outside when they want to. It has been a great relief that our ginger, who used to be rather a bully, has been very nice to the black cat since the op and not pestered him at all.
We've had a fair amount of time in the vets' waiting room to look at the other pets coming for treatment. Somebody today had a couple of hedgehogs, or at least I think they were hedgehogs and not punk guinea pigs. On our first visit someone had a small iguana resting on their chest. There are lots of dogs, from the tiny, cute and healthy puppies that are only there for their jabs to the old and ill, and a fair number of greyhounds, because one of the partners specialises in them (plus reptiles). A cheerful but overweight staffie was sent last time to be weighted on the scales in the corner of the waiting room, and as his equally fat owners headed back to the consulting room with him I thought their vet's powers of tact and diplomacy were about to be tested. One man burst out of a consulting room in tears, and as he blundered towards the door without stopping to pay the receptionists murmered that it was all right, sort it out later. (Actually there is a private back exit for owners who have just lost their pets). I take my hat off to the vets, dealing with patients that can't speak and could be any species from a dog to an iguana, and simultaneously coping with the human owners, who have to take the decisions and pay the bills. Actually I like our vets. I rather wish I could go there when I'm ill.
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