Well, so much for her soccer career!

Saturday night I went to sleep to a cat that used all four paws. Sunday morning I woke up to a cat who was like “I ONLY NEED 3!”

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“Seriously, Mum, it’s all good.”

I spent my first hour awake watching The Bird sass everyone, chase Miles to bite his hind legs, and then roll around in front of me so I could admire her ability to do all of this while holding her hind leg off the ground. To Med Vet or not Med Vet? She seemed like her normal self and the internet articles were wavering about how dramatic a limping indoor cat’s problem could really be, most suggested waiting.

I opted to wait it out for our regular vet on Monday. Birdie and I have certainly spent our share of hours in waiting rooms outside of regular vet hours. Since adopting her, we’ve dealt with:

This furry girl is a mess sometimes.

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By late Sunday afternoon, the limp was still there and she was in the “I feel icky” spot as well as other out of the norm sleeping spots. She couldn’t jump up into the window nappers and squeaked with discomfort when I placed her there. She seemed to be able to get comfortable on firm surfaces like the floor.

Around midnight, I felt her come to bed via the cat ramp, but every spot she tried to settle in resulted in squeaks and growls. In retrospect, I should have read the signs: “hiding,” constant purr, hissing, and realized that she was in pain. At least Med Vet could have hooked us up with drugs.

Monday morning, the limp was prominent and the appetite was more or less gone. Thankfully we got  a vet appointment. (I promised her that nobody would stick anything up her butt.)

This is a montage of her reactions:

  • Cool. I’ve got this as long as I keep purring and headbutting. (The vet wasn’t in the room yet.)
  • Full on fear.
  • Resolved to suffer through this manhandling, but will cut a bitch if the opportunity arises.
  • Contemplation of the diagnosis: Will I ever play soccer again?

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Diagnosis: ruptured ACL       Cause: Running and jumping… being a cat.

Vet squeezing Birdie’s joints and leg: “Ahha, just what I suspected.”

Me: “WHAT?!”

Vet: “Oh, just give me a minute. Is there stuff to jump off of at your house and does she run around like a maniac?”

Brain: “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING? HAVE YOU EVER MET  A CAT?” (This was not our normal doctor.)

Me:”Yes, there are four cats. The house is basically theirs.”

Vet: “Do you know what a ruptured ACL is?”

Me: “Yes, it’s what every fucking athlete in my classroom and large dogs get while playing!”

Since we had reached an understanding, he proceeded to tell me that Birdie could not “cat” for 6-8 weeks and that this won’t heal, it will just become tolerable and she’ll probably develop arthritis. I must have had a dissatisfied look on my face as he kept repeating himself, but I was thinking ahead, visualizing our house and all the items to jump from, and the fact that there isn’t really a room where I can isolate Birdie. Plus she would absolutely lose her mind if I locked her in a room by herself.

Yadda yadda yadda, this was not a typical cat injury (Your cat is a freak show) and while HE did knee surgery on dogs all of the time, he’d have to refer me to…wait for it… Med Vet if surgery became a need.

He was much kinder and understanding than I paint him, but I was/am frustrated for my girl who can’t seem to catch a break.

We dosed up on pain meds before leaving and are relying on the anti-inflammatory that Bird is already on for her itchy butt.

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How to eat when high.

She’s had a fairly tolerable evening and is asleep behind W. Charles. Usually when she’s high, she spends a lot of time pacing, but tonight there have been extended times of actual relaxing. The drugs do make her a little paranoid though. A stoned Bird will defend my folded laundry from all! Sookie sitting down across the room from her, warranted a hiss and fully arched back. Birdie then wen t behind the tv cabinet to growl at the wall every few minutes.

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This laundry is ready to put away! Paws off!

Meanwhile, I’m working on rearranging my house into that M.C. Escher painting where everything leads to stairs. If there are steps to all her favorite spots, she’ll certainly use those instead of jumping. Right??

 

So your cat is transgender. Now what?

What indeed?

“Sitting in the closet with my transgender cat” is not how normal people answer the question “What are you doing?” Even if your cat spends over 24 hours in the “safe/I feel icky” spot in the closet because her meds make her feel lethargic. You just want her to feel better so she can come out of the closet.

However that’s where I spent a lot of time recently since Birdie can only present urinary issues on the weekends preferably after our own vet has closed.

I returned from a day of Christmas crap, looking forward to a leftover enchilada and a fresh avocado. Instead I got a cat who ran to the bathroom about a dozen times in a half hour, frantically dug through every box and peed a dime size drop before running away and then running back to do it all again.

I sometimes think that Birdie misses the emergency vet. The long drive, the unfamiliar environment and smells, the horse sized dogs in the waiting area, and the crazy vets who pulled night shift.

After hanging in the waiting area for an hour and half, watching bad Christmas movies and the horse-dog hug people, we finally got into an official room!
We’ve done this before. Birdie has presented the same symptoms -again only on the weekends- and we’ve heard all the cats and stress urinary issues speeches.

All. Of. Them.

Including the “this usually only happens to boys” speech. Edging on to the three hour mark, I heard the vet coming because he was WHISTLING AS LOUD AS POSSIBLE and continued to do so when he hit the room, proclaiming, “Hi! I just woke up!”
His opening salvo was, “What your problem is, you’ve got a male cat trapped in a female cat’s body! So I’m gonna give ya the boy cat exit speech.”
Then he proceeded to talk at top speed about boy cats and cat pee. He rattled off a list of possible things we could do for or to Birdie, including sticking a something in her to biopsy the inside of her bladder. I tried to interject that sticking things in her was not an option tonight, but he was off again on what a pistol she was when he tried to ultrasound her bladder. “Didn’t get to see much there!” I did not tell him about the Jorge’s name tag episode.

Most of his rant focused on his theory that her issue was stress and inflammation related not pee crystal or infection related. Then he told a story a story about a male cat who made pee snot in his bladder. My eyes may have glazed over. I didn’t get to eat that enchilada after all. Finally he paused long enough to ask what I wanted out of all this.

“I want to get her comfortably through the weekend until we can see our regular vet.”

Okey dokey, since that was it, he’d give me the simple boy cat exit paperwork; should only take him 10 minutes.

As soon as he left, I texted my friend who works with a Gay Straight Alliance group because Brain had taken a strange train of thought, possibly to escape the medical verbal onslaught.



I then followed up with an update to MomBert.



Ohhhhhhh, Grammie gets it! She’s too hip for her own good.
On the way out, one of the nurses complimented me on how patient I was being. I thought she meant patient with the starting to look like four, enchilada-free hour visit, but she meant with Birdie’s issues.

Seriously? What kind of shitty people are out there with pets? Don’t answer. Sadly I know. And I know that the nurse was being nice.

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I just want my fur kids to be safe, comfortable, and healthy. I’ll medicate her so her kitty urethra feels better and try to de-stress her life as much as I can. (Step one is removing the catnip from my yard according to our regular vet. It invites all the riff raff.) Birdie can’t help it, just embraces it, cause , Baby, she was born this way.

“Just put your paws up ’cause you were born this way, baby”

Evil Bird

I only weigh 8 pounds, but….

It took two vet techs, a beach towel, a cone of shame, the feline specialist vet, and my mum to control me. 

They almost failed. 

I have the strength of twenty cats twice my size. 

I almost drew the vet’s blood before she drew mine. 

I tore Jorge the vet tech’s name tag off and broke it. 

I told the other vet tech to take her “distract the cat with a tapping pen” technique and go fuck herself. 

The feline specialist vet had to take a break from me. 


My mum is sorry she made the appointment because I wasn’t eating consistently and she was worried. 

I’ll eat whatever the fuck I want, but not the special “stew” the vet sent home. 

I screamed so loud and so frequently that I scared a dog in the waiting room. 

His people thought they should leave. 

They should have. 

I am incredibly bad ass. 

Sookie and Olivia Wigglebothum Go to the V-e-t

This is us making the best of our trauma. 

Your face when the doctor makes you weigh in fully clothed and with your shoes on.  

“Bitch, I do this naked at home!”

When your skinny friend is all like, “Oh, you’ll totally fit.” But… 

…you know it will never work, and then your friend has to figure out a way to save the awkward moment.    

Skinny friend:”OMG I think that sizing is totally off! It must have shrunk!”

 When you imitate Meryl Streep in that scene from Out of Africa and nobody gets it.  

“I vant you to come home !”


#Caturday