Kitty Porn

You turn your back for a minute, and suddenly the imps are throwing shovelfuls of shit at the fan. In the space of a weekend, I got sick, my cat got sick, my roommate got sick, and my other roommate had her toenail torn off, on purpose no less.

Of my illness, I will only say this: when the chunks that come careening out of your ear make even Nurse Ratchet say “Oh, my God,” you know you have a problem.

Sam the cat, in her typically cryptic manner, retreated under the desk one day and refused to come out. After two days of not eating or drinking, we took her to the vet. He found nothing wrong in his examination and was beginning to suggest terminal organ failure, when he took that last vital by shoving a digital probe up her butt. Over her protests, he got a reading of 103 degrees, which I gather is rather high for a cat. Relieved, he said it was probably an infection and took Sam off to get blood to send off to the lab. While there, he also injected water (or a close analogue thereof) into her back to help relieve the dehydration. So the cat came back, rather humiliated, looking like Quasimodo’s unholy sidekick. Sadly, the fluid was absorbed so quickly that I didn’t have time to get a photograph of The Hunchback of Notre Pussy.

The next day, with the cat still not eating despite the antibiotics and the warning shot across her bow of having instruments probe her rectum, the vet called and said the liver portion of Sam’s blood panel was off, indicating a liver problem. Several Google searches later, we decided she had fatty liver disease, which is brought on by acute anorexia, which is itself caused by stress. What kind of stress? Like, say, having another cat move into the house. Which happened in April when my best friend and her husband moved in and brought their young kitten, Allie, with them. My first thought was “huh, my cat was driven to anorexia when a younger woman moved in.” My second thought was “I blame the patriarchy.” Curse the patriarchy, invading, as it does, every aspect of our lives.

To make a long and bloody story short, for four days we force-fed the cat mashed up food and shotgunned water down her gullet. The water was a fairly entertaining process, as we used a 3 cc syringe (needle-less, of course) to shoot water into her mouth while holding her upside down with her paws clamped tight to her body. She fought it, as she fights anything we do to her that’s not her idea in the first place, but she got rather used to the Roman aristocrat aspect of it, being given sustenance without any exertion on her part. As of today it’s like someone flipped a switch in her brain, because she’s back to eating and drinking on her own. I knew she was getting better when she took a swipe at Allie. It meant her personality was returning, and she had enough spare energy to spite her mortal enemy.

A mortal enemy, I might add, who is a big ol’ fashioned prevert. Whenever any of us goes to the bathroom, she runs at top speed from wherever she is to make it in the door before we shut it. She likes nothing better than to sit and watch quizzically as we sit on the toilet. Often she will cavort in the bathtub, as if offering a pagan celebration of our bowel movements. Once, she even took a swan dive into a toilet full of pee before it was flushed. My favorite was the time I went in to pee, standing upright as males are wont to do. Just as I’m about to let loose, I see a furry little head appear between my legs, gazing lovingly into the toilet. Thank goodness for kegel muscles, because there’s really no explanation you can give that will assuage the owner of a cat whose head you’ve just peed on.

Never a dull moment ‘round here.

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