Not feeling all that hot myself, T and I called the Humane Society of NY (where we adopted him in 2008) and they told us to bring him in. We managed to wrangle our sad, caterwauling little beast into his carrier and found a taxi to take us into the city. So pitiful were his yowls that even the cab driver, a cat owner, was getting choked up.
The Humane Society Animal Hospital Clinic is the St. Vincents ER of pet care. Expect a looong wait in a small room with no bathroom or water fountain or vending machine. The overworked staff largely ignores you while you sit and stare at the Rogue's Gallery of Pets with Strange Problems and their Deranged Owners. As my pal Marilisa commented, "Really? A place with discounted pet care attracts a somewhat insane element? What a shock!"
I listened, or really eavesdropped, on three women, complete strangers, talk about all that they sacrificed for their ungrateful children/parents/siblings and all the things they had to do to care for their small, fussed-over pets. One woman was getting her dog all new shots because her house had burned down. Another woman sat for 6 hours (announcing loudly that she shouldn't even have been sitting there because she had bronchitis and pneumonia) for a consultation on her cat's possible non-descended testicle. Another woman had her whole family - adult daughter, daughter's husband, toddler granddaughter sit in this stupid room for hours while the vet trimmed her pit bulls nails. Next to the woman who kept announcing how sick she was. Gross.
The highlight (or lowlight) was when a grey-haired Al Frankenish character came in midday with his mewling cat. He had his head in his hands and was whispering soothing things to his cat. He seemed desperate to drown out the inane yakking of the three crones and they seemed insulted that he didn't want to chime and talk about his own experiences as a bad parent.
When the vet called him in, one of the ladies got up and started yelling at the receptionist. "Why is he being taken ahead of us? I've been here for 2.5 hours?"
When the annoyed receptionist reluctantly told her that the man was there to put his cat to sleep, the woman said, "How is that my problem? What does that have to do with me waiting here for 2.5 hours? A man has to put his cat to sleep, I feel bad for him, but he should have to wait his turn."
I also adore how bitchy women immediately start saying, "Don't raise your voice at me! I'm being calm, you're the one who needs to lower your voice!" Horrible witches all of them.
Eventually, Moshe was seen by his old vet Dr. Hershberg who is a kind and wacky vet. She quickly diagnosed our Mosh as likely haven eaten something he shouldn't have (the mind boggles) and was dehydrated and severely constipated. An x-ray revealed our cat looked as though he'd swallowed about 5 D-batteries. Except they weren't batteries. It was impacted cat shit.
Anyway, they gave him an IV of fluids, which seemed to perk him up a bit and told us to bring him back right away if he didn't poop or if he vomited at all. We spend the next 2 days eating tuna fish to give him the juice (a good idea for dehydrated cats, just add a little more water to it) until we had so much fucking tuna in the fridge that T finally just threw it in the immersion blender with some water and gave it to the cat. Which he loved and slurped up. Mmm... tuna juice.
This whole experience has given me a lot to think about: Loving a almond-size brained creature to distraction. Loving a 10ish year old cat to distraction. Loving something that will one day die. Yes, owning a cat seems like a good idea before attempting to parent a child. But the experience is hardly the same. Only the helplessness and the feeling like its all your fault. That could be pretty similar.
Anyway, glad you're on the mend old buddy. Rest up. You had us worried, my sweet little old man of a cat.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, elicits quite as much fretting, pity or full blown put-the-mother-in-smothering than a sick pet. Glad to see the Mosh-man is recovering.
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