About ten days ago, Dusty got very sick. He’s the VIC (Very Important Cat) at work. He stopped eating, and then disappeared for a couple of days. I finally spotted him under the boss’s truck, and Ana, being skinny as a rail, slithered under and dragged him out. I knew instantly that he was very sick. He was weak and groggy, and wouldn’t touch even the tasty canned cat food.
The boss, who claims to hate cats, and not to care ONE BIT about Dusty’s welfare, took one look at him and suggested that we take him to the vet right now. Immediately. I called Linda, and organized a trip to the emergency vet clinic (aka the “expensive vet clinic”… only the best for our boy, Dusty!). I pulled out the cat carrier and stuffed him in it. But in the car enroute, he figured out how to deform the shape of the carrier (it’s plastic), and pop the hinges right out of the thing. So I made the rest of the drive with a lap cat.
Once there, he was okay until the vet arrived in the exam room and started poking and prodding, with absolutely no concern for his dignity. He was quite mad about that (though he remained coldly polite to her), and once she left the room for supplies, he decided it was time to go home. I got his attempts on video…
He ended up having to go back about 12 hours later for more treatment. The vet thought it was a virus that became a throat infection. And since the antibiotics did eventually work, I guess she was right. Today he was back to galloping around the courtyard, rolling around in the dirt, climbing my leg at inconvenient moments, enraging the barn swallows, and sitting on my shoulder with his tail up my nose. How could you not love a cat like that?