Lion and Magic Boy

Although Serena turned 7, a pivotal age, this past Monday, I didn’t have a chance yet to do more than mention it in passing as I wandered off to other things.

I didn’t yet mention, for instance, how The Ex picked up the children on her Big Day to spend an hour or so with them, then proceeded to take them to a nearby diner and thereby ruin their appetites for either dinner that I prepared to Serena’s specifications or for her cake, a lovely angel food cake with sliced strawberries that we finally got around to eating tonight, two days later.
Nor did I mention the fact that one of the kittens, the one who ostensibly belongs to Serena (but we all know the cats are mine since — surprise! — I’m the one who feeds them regularly), has developed diarrhea since we’ve had him, becoming especially malodorous and texturally difficult to scoop of late as well as causing the scooper much gagging and retching despite a trip to the veterinarian who simply suggested to keep experimenting with different foods until we find one that doesn’t cause that. Hey! Thanks, vet! And here’s my $150 for that great advice! Oh, and I’ll be happy to throw out that $15 bag of organic catfood now too while I’m at it! So this kitten, the gorgeous golden-eyed sweet boy she named Shadow, suddenly began bleeding on Serena’s birthday. From the ass. Dripping bright red spots all over my nice light-beige rented carpet. (And he’s also suddenly been slightly incontinent on my computer chair, the one in which I am sitting right now, but we won’t discuss that now. Now we are talking about Ass Bleeding, which you will agree is a much bigger problem.)

Oh, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking “Is she sure that cat’s not a girl?” Yes. Quite sure, but thanks for the thought.

So I’ve got exactly 1.5 hours while the children are with The Ex to:
1. Bake a cake.
2. Wrap presents.
3. Cook dinner.
4. Find a vet who is open at 5:15 pm and take the cat in for evaluation and hopefully an instant cure, as I can’t have a cat walking around dripping blood from its ass on Serena’s birthday.

I find the vet’s number from the previous week’s useless and expensive visit written in my handy little book, purchased from the grocery store for $1.67 (on sale), where I’ve decided to write down such things and to thus cut down on the number of 2×2″ pieces of random paper littering my keyboard tray, and I call it. There is no answer, so I leave a message, wondering at the time why this vet who’s been there for years and has put down two of my cats in the past (should I be looking for a new vet, you think?) does not have an answering machine message that mentions the name of his practice at all.

Minutes go by, the cake is now in the oven, a command decision has been made regarding the wrapping of presents, and the cat is in the bathroom downstairs which contains no carpet, one paw indignantly thrust under the door in a futile attempt to escape his prison. The cat’s brother, Nacho, has stationed himself on the near side of the door and occasionally glances reproachfully at me when he is not thrusting his own paw under the door in a heartwrenching act of solidarity. It strikes me that it is possible that I called the wrong number when I phoned the vet, and I check my book against the phone’s redial capabilities to be sure. No, it’s the same. Then I find the number again online. Oops, one number was transposed. I’m sure the recipient of that message must have gotten a good laugh from my woeful tale of “rectal bleeding” and “incontinence”. I briefly consider calling them back to leave a second, explanatory message, but as time is not my ally this night I forego this idea in favor of phoning the actual vet.

He’s there. At 5:20. I’ll be right over with the cat, I tell him.

Too bad there’s a cake in the oven. I weigh my options. The cake wins; I wait 15 minutes.

The cat must be left overnight so the good doctor can obtain a stool sample (now why is it I have no trouble typing “rectal bleeding” and “ass” but somehow “stool sample” gives me pause? why?) so as to determine the cause of the malady. Again I weigh my options: do I cram BOTH cats and their litter box into the tiny bathroom overnight and clean up all the ass blood in the morning, or do I leave the cat with the vet?

I wave goodbye to the cat and race back home through darkness and a weird thick fog to cook the dinner, none of which will end up eaten that night.

The next night, Day Two of Birthday With The Ex ensues, another 1.5 hours, this time dinnerless (leaving me to purchase, procure, and prepare the dinner for the children even though the 1.5 hours landed squarely during the Dinner Hour), and I use my time alone to retrieve the cat, now with an Ass Cork installed or perhaps having received some medication (which I get to give him the remainder of in pill form, and we all know how much fun it is to give pills to cats).

The children come home, Serena clutching a brown furry creature-thing. With googly eyes. She says it’s a dog, but it’s clearly a groundhog. I wrote about it on Babble today. Don’t let my wimpy review steer you wrong — this thing. Is. Creepy. I hate it. It required new batteries last night and again today in order to work, and we have no other batteries. Wait. That could be good. Because I’m not putting 4 freaking AA batteries in this thing every day. And the thing is silent without the batteries.

Muahahahaha!

[tags]poop, cats, kittens, ass cork, ass blood, veterinarian, batteries, birthdays, Scoozie[/tags]