I took today off work. It was not a duvet day, or a sickie, because the deal for part timers at the plant centre is that if you don't turn up, you don't get paid. I couldn't imagine that with the snow they would have many customers, if any, so I thought they could manage with two people, and I did not think my chest would stand working in a polytunnel in close to freezing temperatures for nearly eight hours. Also, the grey tabby had to go to the vet, and as we both expected the worst I did not want the Systems Administrator to make the trip unaccompanied, and take whatever decision had to be made single-handed, and drive back to the house alone with the empty basket.
When we first saw the grey tabby she was six weeks old. Out of a delightful swarm of kittens in a front room in Romford, she was the one making a determined line for the back of the television in the far corner. We said that we'd have that one, because she had the most get-up-and-go. When she was thirteen weeks old we brought her home. It was July 1999, a very hot day, and she and her brother panted alarmingly in the back of the car in the clogged traffic on the A12. Her given name was Ronkerval Betty Boo, a ridiculous name if there ever was one, and we called her Belle.
The grey tabby had incredibly crimped, electrically charged fur which stuck to everything. Her face ended in a long snout, for a cat, which with her imperious expression gave her a vulpine look. Her chin was soft white. You can see similar long, white tipped faces on the little cats that lurk in the edges of seventeenth century Dutch paintings. Her voice was loud, an expressive yelp, and if she was alone in a room, or on the landing, she would howl because nobody was paying attention to her. Her feet were vast, with great tufts of fur between the toes. She loved being fussed, right up to the point where she got bored of it, when she would suddenly growl and stomp off your lap, as if she had been importuned. She stamped when she entered a room, so that you knew it was her coming. She was particularly the Systems Administrator's cat, and loved to lie stretched out on the SA's chest, faces inches apart, claws digging into the quaking human skin beneath.
Though the spirit was titanic, the flesh was weak. She was always a skinny creature, even by Maine Coon standards, and the vet who micro-chipped her struggled to find enough fat to bury the chip, itself only the size of a grain of rice. As a youngster she suffered from a couple of bad abscesses in her feet, presumably resulting from infected bites, and after the second one the vet said that she was worried about the grey tabby's immune system, and then became embarrassed and told us to forget that she'd said that. The vet's intuition was right. In middle age the grey tabby developed an auto-immune problem in the pads of her feet, which became hugely swollen, and one burst through the skin in a raw lump. Surgery in such cases does not always work well, because there is no healthy tissue to stitch and the wound tends to break down repeatedly. The grey tabby's skinny frame came through the general anaesthetic, and the wound eventually healed, rather to our and the vet's surprise. Months of steroid pills followed, and the grey tabby's pads, though never again normal, ceased to be grotesque.
She continued to live an active life, stomping out into the garden, always in the direction of the lettuce farm rather than the wood, shouting, growling, purring, sitting on the ice in the middle of the frozen pond and daring it to break. She was not a thrifty cat, perpetually skinny and always the first to be hungry. She got gradually thinner. On Saturday morning when I came downstairs she seemed rather spaced out in the hall, and spent the day curled in a chair where she doesn't normally sleep. She had suddenly lost a lot more weight, and smelt slightly bad. By yesterday morning it was clear that something was seriously wrong. She went out into the garden, and then sat in the snow looking in through the glass door. Once inside, she didn't wash herself and spend the morning curled on her wet fur. She ate a tiny helping of food, very slowly, purring, but was even thinner, and constantly dribbling. The smell was rank.
I rang at 8.00am on the dot this morning to get a vet's appointment. We hadn't driven over the snow in our lane since it fell, so the SA went out to warm the car up and turn it around, and then once it was moving didn't dare to stop until the farmyard, where the neighbours had scraped the snow off the road. The SA had to walk up to the house and we made a sad little procession going back to the car, the SA in the lead, carrying the basket with the grey tabby wrapped in a purple towel, me following behind carrying a shovel for the snow, just in case. When we arrived it was obvious that most other people booked in today had cancelled, but the tone of my voice had probably told the receptionist that an appointment 'today' meant just that.
The vet's verdict was bleak, but not unexpected. Kidney failure, and given the speed of the grey tabby's decline, almost certainly some other problems as well. Acute dehydration. We could have blood tests done, and have the grey tabby put on a drip, and given huge shots of antibiotics. She might rally short term, but there was no treatment for the underlying kidney disease. No prospect of a proper, permanent cure. When the grey tabby had the operation on her foot the vet had to ring for us to come and collect her early, she hated being there so much. Having her rehydrated so that she could spend her last few days at the vet with kidney failure was no option at all. The SA signed the consent form for euthanasia. I think the vet was relieved that we had done the right thing.
We agreed to leave the body with them. Our other pets are buried up in the meadow, but with the cold and the frozen ground we both had visions of the burial turning into something out of a Coen brothers black comedy, or not being able to dig deep enough and finding the fox had dug her up. The vet agreed to send us the bill. Payment is normally at the time of treatment, but they're sympathetic that way, when it comes to the end of life, and we didn't feel like fiddling around with credit cards at the reception desk. We told the grey tabby she'd been a good cat, and stroked her terribly bony back for the last time and went home, with the empty basket. And because of the way that normal life has to carry on even in the face of disaster we went via the farm shop, although we agreed that we weren't feeling hungry, because we would be later, so that we could get something for lunch and for supper. The bill will be extra for the cremation, but worth it not to be trying to hack a grave out in the snow. We didn't want the ashes. I don't know what we've have done with them.
It is the nearest that human beings get to being gods, to love animals, that have such little lives compared to ours.
Showing posts with label vet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vet. Show all posts
Monday, 6 February 2012
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
back at the vet again
The black cat saw the vet today, for his final sign-off after his operation. We were several minutes early, having allowed for traffic that might have been bad but wasn't, and the vet was running half an hour late, so we sat for some time in the waiting room, the cat wedged between us in his red wire basket, looking resigned. Once in the consulting room, he obliged by marching around the floor to exhibit his gait, and we expressed our satisfaction with the outcome while the vet fretted that he had lost some muscle mass on that side and his knee still wasn't absolutely perfect. As the Systems Administrator pointed out to console her, the S.A.'s knee was operated on several years ago at vast expense by a man at the Wellington Hospital, and that isn't absolutely perfect either. The vet agreed that absolute perfection after the cat had totally detatched his cruciate ligament was never going to be achievable, and repeated that his outlook as regards arthritis were much better than if he'd simply had cage rest. I thought his chances of ever speaking to us again were much better than if we'd gone down the cage route, and we thanked her and left with expressions of mutual satisfaction.
The cat has actually become noticeably friendlier since his accident. This is slightly surprising, since I wouldn't have expected five visits to the vet in just over three months plus several weeks kept locked in the house to have improved his view of his human companions. I can never quite believe it when in nineteenth century literature people's characters are suddenly improved by suffering. Chuck Katy out of a swing and stick her in a wheelchair for a few years, that'll turn her from a noisy tomboy into a caring sensitive young lady with modest manners. Drop a burning house on Mr Rochester's head and he'll discover his inner feminist. However, the black cat, whose presence in the household has always been counted by whether either of us have seen him in the past two or three days rather than whether he was in for his tea, has become much fonder since his acccident and sticks around virtually all the time.
I was afraid I had scared him off this morning, just on the day we needed him to go to the vet, as he followed me into the garden while I was letting the chickens out of their house, and decided to make a mad dash past me at the exact moment that I threw away the water from the jug that had held their wet bread. I hit him full on, and he ran away with the amount of panic and indignation you would expect from a cat whose owner has suddenly hurled a pint of starchy cold water over him. I had to follow him empty-handed, apologising profusely, and coax him out from among the jerusalem artichokes.
The cat has actually become noticeably friendlier since his accident. This is slightly surprising, since I wouldn't have expected five visits to the vet in just over three months plus several weeks kept locked in the house to have improved his view of his human companions. I can never quite believe it when in nineteenth century literature people's characters are suddenly improved by suffering. Chuck Katy out of a swing and stick her in a wheelchair for a few years, that'll turn her from a noisy tomboy into a caring sensitive young lady with modest manners. Drop a burning house on Mr Rochester's head and he'll discover his inner feminist. However, the black cat, whose presence in the household has always been counted by whether either of us have seen him in the past two or three days rather than whether he was in for his tea, has become much fonder since his acccident and sticks around virtually all the time.
I was afraid I had scared him off this morning, just on the day we needed him to go to the vet, as he followed me into the garden while I was letting the chickens out of their house, and decided to make a mad dash past me at the exact moment that I threw away the water from the jug that had held their wet bread. I hit him full on, and he ran away with the amount of panic and indignation you would expect from a cat whose owner has suddenly hurled a pint of starchy cold water over him. I had to follow him empty-handed, apologising profusely, and coax him out from among the jerusalem artichokes.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
medical progress
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.
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.
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
an unfortunate accident
It would be a turn up for the books if cardunculus turned out to be a young, single political activist from a tough background living in Damascus, and not half of a pair of white, middle-aged, middle-class, graduate, ex-City downshifters, living in peaceful obscurity in southeast England. Blogspot will let you have multiple blogs, maybe I should try out some new personas. Still, they say stick to what you know.
We have an invalid cat. This has been distressing for all concerned, but could have been much worse. Early last week our black cat started hobbling on his left hind leg. There was no obvious wound or bite, so we thought we'd better leave it a day or two and see how things developed. The last time the grey tabby developed a limp, having a history of septic bites in her feet and a dodgy immune system, we rushed her to the vet immediately. Once released from the cat basket she stomped about the consulting room without limping at all. The vet consoled us that this happened often, as animals in a strange place would make an effort not to appear weak and vulnerable, and gave us a prescription for antibiotics to present to the reception desk if she developed a septic bite later. She didn't. It must have been a sprain.
By Thursday the limp was worse, not better, and the cat was sitting with his lower leg stuck out at an odd angle. He was quite happy to be picked up, and we still couldn't find any external wound or injury, but we thought he'd better see a vet before the weekend, and booked him in for Friday morning. We have used the same practice for nearly twenty years. They are very good, and the vet we saw has known the black cat since he was a tiddler, having microchipped him when he was a kitten. She listened to our account of what seemed to be wrong with the cat, and a look of concern came over her face when we mentioned the leg sticking out at an odd angle. It appeared that the most likely cause of his problems was damage to his cruciate ligament. She took him away to be examined with the help of a veterinary nurse, and reappeared a while later without him. We were not going to be sent away with antibiotics this time. Instead she wanted to sedate and x-ray the cat, and given his age (12) apologetically suggested that really blood tests would be a good idea.
We went back just before five to collect the cat, and saw a different vet, who showed us the x-rays. They had been a shock to the vets and were a shock to us. The lesser shock was that he had snapped his cruciate ligament completely away from the bone. We could see the little detatched bone fragment waving around inside the equivalent of his knee joint, which is the joint half way up a cat's hind leg (I always get confused about how the bones and joints in the legs of quadrupeds equate to those of humans). The bigger shock was that the x-ray revealed he had about a dozen shotgun pellets in him. Our immediate thought was that he had been shot, had jumped out of his skin, and snapped his ligament in the panic. The Systems Administrator had looked up ligament problems in cats when we got home from the vet in the morning, and overweight is a frequent cause, which doesn't apply to the black cat, who is a svelte and healthy outdoor creature.
There are two possible approaches to treating a detached cruciate ligament in a cat, the vet explained. They could operate, using 50lb nylon fishing line to hold the two halves of the joint together until it healed. The cat would need to rest for a week or so, to the extent of being confined to a room. She favoured the operation route herself. Or the cat could rest completely, what they call 'cage rest', for 6 to 8 weeks. One of the partners in the practice was more conservative, and favoured cage rest. They'd rung a vet in Ipswich who specialised in orthopaedics, and he was firmly in the operation camp. It was important to start doing something soon, before the cat became accustomed to the pain, walked on the damaged leg, and wore the lining of the joint away. She said that the operation was now routine, with a good expected outcome. and that they carried out around two a week. However, if we did not want to risk it or could not afford it, the cage rest cure worked eventually. She gave us the cat and some strong painkillers, and told us to go home for the weekend and decide.
We already had decided, after our initial consultation and internet researches. Putting a twelve year old cat under general anaesthetic isn't ideal, but the thought of keeping him shut in a cage for two months over the summer, while he fretted and pined and the other cats came and jeered at him, was too unpleasant to be seriously contemplated. We booked him in for surgery on Monday morning.
He survived the operation, was kept at the vets overnight for the administration of strong painkillers, and we collected him yesterday morning. He was terribly, terribly pleased to see us, and purred hugely in the consulting room while the nurse talked us through his aftercare. He hadn't eaten anything, but she thought that was because he was upset, as he hadn't been at all responsive when the nurses tried to make a fuss of him. The shotgun injuries turned out to be nothing to do with the damaged leg, as we'd begun to suspect, given he'd not shown any signs of soreness in recent days. He could have been carrying the pellets for years, and they would never have been discovered if he hadn't been x-rayed for something else. We will never know how or when he was shot, though I need to compose a carefully worded and polite letter to the local farmers reminding them that their land does abut residential properties, and that we have pets and they need to be careful when rabbiting.
The cat was almost hysterically pleased to get home, and hopped around on three legs purring, though he still wouldn't eat anything. Then he became very tired, and since then has been mostly lying down, installed in the study with a litter tray and his own food. He has a poodle shave on his leg up to hip level, which is not a good look for cats, and a 10cm operation scar up the outside of his thigh. We take it in turns to sit with him sometimes, and he still purrs when we talk to him. ( When you have downshifted you end up painting your own house instead of calling in a decorator, but you do have time to spend with your pets when they're ill). He is now eating, and is not trying to chew his stiches out, and it is going better than we might have expected.
It is not very convenient, though. When he is not lying down he has a surprising turn of speed, and we've been keeping the inner hall and veranda doors shut so that he can't escape into the garden. This impedes the free flow of the other cats, who have to be let in and out, are missing out on lap time, and are spooked by the whole thing, especially the black cat's sister, who is so suspicious of any change to routine that she knows if I am even thinking about taking her to the vet. It also impedes the free flow of air, since normally we have the doors propped open in the summer. We had planned to go to look at some Cotswolds gardens next week, and a friend had kindly agreed to look after the place while we were away, but we can't leave the cat with her. She has looked after them before, but this one only likes people he knows (basically us) and can't be trusted not to disappear for the duration (not sensible a week after the op) or humanely be left locked in a room without friendly (in his view) company. And he has to go for a follow-up appointment next week. By coincidence our friend has had another request to mind somebody else's pets for the same three nights, so at least she'll be able to accept that offer, and we hadn't booked anywhere to stay, thinking we'd get a late deal, but it would have been nice to go to the Cotswolds in the rose season. The Systems Administrator even turned down an invitation to a cricket match because we were going to be away.
As for the cost, a colleague was lamenting the expense as well as the pain of needing to have root canal surgery, and all I can say is that having a cruciate ligament repaired in a geriatric cat is getting beyond root canals and into bottom-end implant territory, and we don't have pet medical insurance. But we still have the cat. He must have used up at least two of his nine lives, though.
We have an invalid cat. This has been distressing for all concerned, but could have been much worse. Early last week our black cat started hobbling on his left hind leg. There was no obvious wound or bite, so we thought we'd better leave it a day or two and see how things developed. The last time the grey tabby developed a limp, having a history of septic bites in her feet and a dodgy immune system, we rushed her to the vet immediately. Once released from the cat basket she stomped about the consulting room without limping at all. The vet consoled us that this happened often, as animals in a strange place would make an effort not to appear weak and vulnerable, and gave us a prescription for antibiotics to present to the reception desk if she developed a septic bite later. She didn't. It must have been a sprain.
By Thursday the limp was worse, not better, and the cat was sitting with his lower leg stuck out at an odd angle. He was quite happy to be picked up, and we still couldn't find any external wound or injury, but we thought he'd better see a vet before the weekend, and booked him in for Friday morning. We have used the same practice for nearly twenty years. They are very good, and the vet we saw has known the black cat since he was a tiddler, having microchipped him when he was a kitten. She listened to our account of what seemed to be wrong with the cat, and a look of concern came over her face when we mentioned the leg sticking out at an odd angle. It appeared that the most likely cause of his problems was damage to his cruciate ligament. She took him away to be examined with the help of a veterinary nurse, and reappeared a while later without him. We were not going to be sent away with antibiotics this time. Instead she wanted to sedate and x-ray the cat, and given his age (12) apologetically suggested that really blood tests would be a good idea.
We went back just before five to collect the cat, and saw a different vet, who showed us the x-rays. They had been a shock to the vets and were a shock to us. The lesser shock was that he had snapped his cruciate ligament completely away from the bone. We could see the little detatched bone fragment waving around inside the equivalent of his knee joint, which is the joint half way up a cat's hind leg (I always get confused about how the bones and joints in the legs of quadrupeds equate to those of humans). The bigger shock was that the x-ray revealed he had about a dozen shotgun pellets in him. Our immediate thought was that he had been shot, had jumped out of his skin, and snapped his ligament in the panic. The Systems Administrator had looked up ligament problems in cats when we got home from the vet in the morning, and overweight is a frequent cause, which doesn't apply to the black cat, who is a svelte and healthy outdoor creature.
There are two possible approaches to treating a detached cruciate ligament in a cat, the vet explained. They could operate, using 50lb nylon fishing line to hold the two halves of the joint together until it healed. The cat would need to rest for a week or so, to the extent of being confined to a room. She favoured the operation route herself. Or the cat could rest completely, what they call 'cage rest', for 6 to 8 weeks. One of the partners in the practice was more conservative, and favoured cage rest. They'd rung a vet in Ipswich who specialised in orthopaedics, and he was firmly in the operation camp. It was important to start doing something soon, before the cat became accustomed to the pain, walked on the damaged leg, and wore the lining of the joint away. She said that the operation was now routine, with a good expected outcome. and that they carried out around two a week. However, if we did not want to risk it or could not afford it, the cage rest cure worked eventually. She gave us the cat and some strong painkillers, and told us to go home for the weekend and decide.
We already had decided, after our initial consultation and internet researches. Putting a twelve year old cat under general anaesthetic isn't ideal, but the thought of keeping him shut in a cage for two months over the summer, while he fretted and pined and the other cats came and jeered at him, was too unpleasant to be seriously contemplated. We booked him in for surgery on Monday morning.
He survived the operation, was kept at the vets overnight for the administration of strong painkillers, and we collected him yesterday morning. He was terribly, terribly pleased to see us, and purred hugely in the consulting room while the nurse talked us through his aftercare. He hadn't eaten anything, but she thought that was because he was upset, as he hadn't been at all responsive when the nurses tried to make a fuss of him. The shotgun injuries turned out to be nothing to do with the damaged leg, as we'd begun to suspect, given he'd not shown any signs of soreness in recent days. He could have been carrying the pellets for years, and they would never have been discovered if he hadn't been x-rayed for something else. We will never know how or when he was shot, though I need to compose a carefully worded and polite letter to the local farmers reminding them that their land does abut residential properties, and that we have pets and they need to be careful when rabbiting.
The cat was almost hysterically pleased to get home, and hopped around on three legs purring, though he still wouldn't eat anything. Then he became very tired, and since then has been mostly lying down, installed in the study with a litter tray and his own food. He has a poodle shave on his leg up to hip level, which is not a good look for cats, and a 10cm operation scar up the outside of his thigh. We take it in turns to sit with him sometimes, and he still purrs when we talk to him. ( When you have downshifted you end up painting your own house instead of calling in a decorator, but you do have time to spend with your pets when they're ill). He is now eating, and is not trying to chew his stiches out, and it is going better than we might have expected.
It is not very convenient, though. When he is not lying down he has a surprising turn of speed, and we've been keeping the inner hall and veranda doors shut so that he can't escape into the garden. This impedes the free flow of the other cats, who have to be let in and out, are missing out on lap time, and are spooked by the whole thing, especially the black cat's sister, who is so suspicious of any change to routine that she knows if I am even thinking about taking her to the vet. It also impedes the free flow of air, since normally we have the doors propped open in the summer. We had planned to go to look at some Cotswolds gardens next week, and a friend had kindly agreed to look after the place while we were away, but we can't leave the cat with her. She has looked after them before, but this one only likes people he knows (basically us) and can't be trusted not to disappear for the duration (not sensible a week after the op) or humanely be left locked in a room without friendly (in his view) company. And he has to go for a follow-up appointment next week. By coincidence our friend has had another request to mind somebody else's pets for the same three nights, so at least she'll be able to accept that offer, and we hadn't booked anywhere to stay, thinking we'd get a late deal, but it would have been nice to go to the Cotswolds in the rose season. The Systems Administrator even turned down an invitation to a cricket match because we were going to be away.
As for the cost, a colleague was lamenting the expense as well as the pain of needing to have root canal surgery, and all I can say is that having a cruciate ligament repaired in a geriatric cat is getting beyond root canals and into bottom-end implant territory, and we don't have pet medical insurance. But we still have the cat. He must have used up at least two of his nine lives, though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)