Ollie actually broke his hip. I felt like something was wrong. Sparky thought I was over-reacting by driving him home to see our vet, the third since his midnight flight. I wasn’t. The first vet took the x-ray from the wrong angle. The second vet figured he was fine because he was walking. The third, our regular vet figured it out, x-rayed him right and because of the location of the splintered break suggested a fourth vet for surgery.
Ollie had surgery last week. He’s in a playpen for the next six weeks. (I find it ironic that the first piece of baby furniture I have, courtesy of Tat, is being used for cat rehab.) Four vets, one surgeon, one metal plate, five small pins, and over a grand later, Ollie is healing, but not very well. He needs physical therapy.
Now, not only do I have a cat that is allergic to cats, but I have a cat that goes to physical therapy. Next thing you know, Scrunchy is going to request a Freudian analyst to discuss his separation anxiety due to early kittenhood abandonment and having no idea who he really is because he never even knew his father’s name.
In related new, Sparky is going to London without me this weekend because I must care for Ollie. I am horribly jealous. I’ve never been to London.
In non-cat related news, my work project is coming to an end. May 1st I’ll be back in Boweltown. I love Hamburg and my co-workers, but I miss my other life. I miss my dryer and my garbage disposal and my new curtains and my gym and my manicurist, my best friend and my vet (not necessarily in that order). I miss my old routine.
So, unemployed, I’m planning on travelling in May. I have a date in Paris, but a certain cat might cancel that trip. First London and now possibly Paris. Thanks, cat. Good thing I love that fuzzy butt of yours.
I had planned a solo trip to Barcelona, Andorra, Portugal and Ireland. Then I remembered that I am on a baby making cycle. Oh yeah, that. Thanks, ovaries.
Try making travel plans around a fertility calendar. It’s awesome.
Then to make matters worse, I realized that my ass looks exactly like my 60 year old father’s when I wear sweatpants. I asked Sparky if maybe I was being silly. His response?
“Oh My GOD. It does. I think I just lost my hard-on for a year.”
Great. Note to self: Get Sparky response training. I really don’t care about his hard-on (except for baby-making reasons). This is what I needed to hear:
No Jen, of course not. In fact, now that you mention it, I find a remarkable resemblance to Angelina Jolie’s ass.
Lie to me. Really.
Now for some personals:
Mim: Get off my blogging ass. I’ll call you this weekend about Barca after I coordinate my fertility calendar, business meetings, Sparky’s calendar and travel plans. Its like a 3-d chess game.
Jami: I can’t come in June because of baby-making plans. Come here. Travel with me in Europe.
Dad: What are we doing for your sixtieth? I need to know.
Jeff: If you don’t call me you rat bastard, I will hunt your skinny white ass down!