I just got back from the second vet appointment in 15 hours.
You know, I think its going to take more than a nice set of pearls and a twinset to make a mother out of me. If can’t keep a cat from taking a header off our third floor balcony, what the hell am I doing thinking about kids.
I wrote this maudlin piece earlier, reliving all the guilt I felt coursing through my veins (along with that lovely cortisol which I blame for making me look ten years older in six months) last night and today, but it began to bore me.
Olli took a walk on a ledge via the balcony and fell. I didn’t know until Scrunchy alerted me Lassie style. I’m not even exaggerating. Scrunchy is either a really good big brother or didn’t want to miss out on any of that butt licking he and Olli seem to symbiotically enjoy.
We found Ollie outside and three floors from where he was supposed to be.
A late night trip to the vet and an x-ray later, he had no internal bleeding or broken bones. However, because the vet was wearing a Dr. Frankenstein-like white smock, I wasn’t so willing to say Olli was fine. Thirty meters is a long way for a little guy. And this Dr. was a little suspicious to me.
I stayed home today to make sure, spoon feeding Olli my pasta sauce because he likes that more than Wiskas Fish medley.
And I freaked out some more. I got a referral to a good vet (as opposed to Zee-Docktor of Anatomy and your-cat-ist-fine. Jeest-leeve-heem-vivf-me. Whaaaa-haaa-haaa-guy from last night.)
The good vet told me that Olli had a concussion, a bruised chin, bruised sternum, ribs and all four paws. He said that Olli probably had one hell of a headache, but he wasn’t in danger of curling up in a corner and dying the way I was imagining it. In other words, the cat is really freakin’ lucky.
Two pain shots later and an appointment for tomorrow, I was out the door.
I called Tat this morning to commiserate. I think she let’s me talk about my cats as if they were kids because she feels guilty for being able to pro-create so easily. Tat says one day “Hey, I think I want another kid.” She thinks about if for one more day and BAM! She’s knocked up. So I take advantage of that guilt by talking about Olli, Scrunchy and Kiska as if I’m about to sign them up for soccer practice.
Turns out, while I was up every hour, face pressed to the hardwood floor making sure Olli was still breathing, she was up with her two-year old. The kid thanked her for the diaper change and said “Bye” when she wanted to go to sleep.
Maybe I’ve got the night shit down, I just need to work on keeping them from sharp objects and high places.