Feline Follies (Lynn Kerstan)

I love the Internets. Google is my BFF. But sometimes, a person has just got to Step Away from the Mouse.

Like, for instance, when a cat is sick, and you don’t know why, but it doesn’t seem to be an emergency and you can’t get a vet appointment because of the holiday weekend. So there I was, all last weekend and the next two days as well, scrolling through one website after another, matching Lymond’s primary symptoms (lethargy and weak hind legs) to possible causes. Of which there were a multitude.

Who knew cats got diabetes? Or arthritis? At least those could be treated, unlike some of the truly dire possibilities. He’s only six years old! But without question, he was teetering around like a furry little old man. And I was carrying a twenty-pound lead ball in my chest.

By the time Wednesday morning dawned, I had everything prepared for the dreaded Get-Him- in-the-Cat-Carrier ordeal. The carrier, very large and shaped like a loaf of bread, has a heavy plastic domed lid that lets the cat see out and everyone else see in. I had stored the carrier in the shower stall on Monday so that Lymond could get used to the smell of it in the bathroom. I’d set aside a straightjacket . . . er, beach towel.

He wasn’t suspicious when I wrapped him in the towel and carried him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us. But when he saw the carrier with its lid open, he became thirteen pounds of panic. I wrestled him, still togaed by towel, into the carrier, but before I could shut the lid, he was out again.

Here’s the only time a teensy bathroom turns out to be useful. He had no escape, and I had a big towel. Finally he and towel were inside, the lid was shut, and I was breathing heavily.

He flung himself against the sides and lid of the carrier for awhile before crouching down in the corner. Then, emerging from the depths of the lowest circle of hell, came a lingering cry of utter despair. And another, and another. You’d have to hear that sound to believe it. When we left the apartment, a neighbor’s tiny dog, Nadia, came bouncing up. Lymond yowled. Nadia hauled tail outa there like a streak of lightning.

Fifteen-minute drive to the vet’s. Cat launched into a series of constant, loud meows. After awhile, I started meowing back, and pretty soon, we were alternating. Getting bored with that, I took to raising the pitch after each of my meows. Lymond followed me up the scale. Very weird experience, a duet with a cat.

He went silent when we came into the reception area and made himself as small as possible. Hoping we’d forget his existence, I suppose. After a long wait, a chirpy assistant led us to a small room. Another struggle match to get cat out of box and onto the counter for weighing and the taking of the temperature in the butt. He started to become deceptively docile.

Then the vet came in. Not the woman I’d been dealing with for years, but a tall, good looking, wholesome young man. He could have been the captain of a college soccer team. And he underestimated Lymond, who pretended to let himself be handed over to the stranger before making a sudden break for freedom.

Didn’t get far, but his flying leap off the high counter did no favors for his hind legs. He was limping when we finally got him out from under a chair.

The doc felt him up and down, but could detect no signs of injury. For diagnosis, we’d need X-Rays, a battery of blood tests, urinalysis . . . Ayieee! But whatever the expense, it had to be done. And they’d take the X-Rays straightaway, which might tell us something without need for the other stuff.

Nope. They were clear. Blood tests not due back until the next day, and the doctor would call with the results. He was very sweet and earnest. "I found nothing during the physical exam," he said, "except what I told you about the fairly large amount of solid waste inside him. You’re sure he’s been having bowel movements?"

"I’ve watched closely, and I scoop the litter every day. There have been turds." Was I really having this conversation?

"We’ll know more tomorrow," he said. "For now, the solid waste is all we are sure of."

I looked down at Lymond, huddled against me like the neediest orphan in the world. "So there you have it, cat. The preliminary diagnosis. Apparently, you are full of shit."

The vet was a little shocked, I think. Or maybe just startled. He flushed (no pun intended!) and gave a wavery grin. Helped me get Lymond back in the carrier–only two escapes this time. And all the way home, cat and I sang our duet of meows.

Thursday morning, the vet called to say that all the blood tests were normal. Yippee!

The twenty pound weight in my chest is much lighter now, although it’s still there. I am to watch Lymond, monitor his symptoms, and give him PetroMalt for the constipation.

So that’s the story of my Easter holiday. I’ve been teaching an on-line writing class, so being housebound has been just fine. Lymond continues to eat normally, be sweet and affectionate, and hasn’t uttered a sound (except for purring) since I brought him home.

I hope he gets well and stays that way. He’d better! I think it would take a SEAL Team to get him into that carrier again.