Besides an unceremonious toss into a brand new and very strange travel “cage,” my feline diabetic adventure continues. This time it involved lots of needles and a “to do” list that my human wrote. How do I know about her list? She read it to the veterinarian office this morning, and I could hear everyone laughing.
But to ME first! I’m not in love with my new red carrier. It doesn’t smell right. My human explained that it might be like that “new car smell” and that’s why I yowled all the way from home to my doctor’s office. I need to pee on it and make it right.
What I measure into 6-month cycles, I must make trips to the doctor who sticks a nasty needle in me and sucks out some of my blood! At first, because he said I needed to loose weight, the vet’s helper (a nice woman who I like) strapped me in a yellow bag, like a freaking empanada. (Yes, I know about empanadas because I was born in New Mexico–hello!) I guess they didn’t appreciate my ability to swat human hands and make them bleed. Wussies!
Humiliated in a yellow empanada crust, I gave those people fits when they decided they had to shave my neck to find a suitable blood vein. Next thing I knew I seriously chilled out after something called “gas” was forced on my handsome tabby face.
So I eat prescribed food and my human makes me exercise. Guess there’s less fat on me now, and yesterday no yellow empanada, and no buzzing beasts on my neck. But I can’t say that I was wild about that blood sucking needle in my leg. But, I kept my eye on my human’s face while she chatted with the vet about some lump in my side, and what she called, stone-like poop. It felt good having her there, but seriously, must she discuss such private matters with these people??
They kept me pinned to the exam table and my doctor stuck another needle in me. He went right into that lump on my side. Bastet! Someone cut me some slack here.
“As I thought,” began my doctor, “it’s a fatty growth. Not uncommon or that worrisome in older cats.” I could feel tension leave the room.
My human picked me up and put me back into that red thing she calls a carrier. It’s a cage no matter how you look at it.
While I watched from “my carrier” another human carry in a yapping dog, she asked if she could buy my insulin needles without the plastic case, blah, blah, plastic, oceans, needles, waste, blah.
That, I suppose has to do with her very funny to-do list today.