If you follow my Twitter (@knotmagick) or know me on Ravelry (also @knotmagick), then you know Sunday was far too eventful for my liking.
Sunday morning my mom called shortly after I woke up. We were chatting pleasantly when Bast jumped up on the bed.
He was covered in poo.
Turns out he’s been stealing the we food wet got for Gwydion, and it did not agree with him. At all. He was absolutely rank from the shoulders down, and he got it all over my bedding, too.
So I spent the next half hour or so trying to bathe a very wiggly, disagreeable cat. A cat with very fine long fur, which happens to be curly in some places–namely under his tale and belly, where the worst of the mess was.
I actually had to bathe him twice, but it still wasn’t enough. In the end, I had to hold him while Ash gave him a rather undignified hair cut.
After striping the bed and starting a load of laundry, I got a drink.
Well, not really. I don’t actually drink, and we don’t have any alcohol in the house, but if we did, I would have started. Instead I had a cookie. Close enough, in my opinion.
A few hours later, I finally got around to making the bed again, which is a task I’ve always found to be obnoxious. I hate wrestling with the sheets and the duvet cover.
Anyway, the bed was finally made. I set up my laptop to watch something and pulled out my knitting. Hermes came to cuddle with me as usual.
About fifteen minutes later, he moved.
And there was blood on the bed.
It wasn’t a huge amount. We’re not talking a scene from Penny Dreadful or Dexter here. More like a rubber stamp of his backside.
Fifteen minutes later, he was still bleeding and I wasn’t sure from where or why. For his part, he seemed completely unbothered and oblivious.
I tried calling the vet, which was closed.
I tried calling three other vets, all closed.
I called the emergency vet our regular vet lists on the answering machine. No answer.
I went to google and tried searching for local emergency vets, all of which were closed.
Truly panicking, I turned to Ravelry, and someone was able to connect me to an e-vet I’d missed in my panic-searching. I called. They asked me to bring him in. I did.
We waited in the car for an hour while he was examined. I was a wreck. Hermes is 12 and I’ve had him since he was six months old. He’s my first cat. The first pet I got when I moved out of my parent’s house. When things were really bad with my mental health a few years ago, making sure his needs were met was the only thing that would get me out of bed some days.
Finally, the doctor called, and I nearly laughed.
It was an abscess. A burst anal abscess.
My cat basically had a bad pimple on his asshole, which made him bleed all over my bed.
$612 and an overnight stay later, he’s back with lanced bum, an antibiotic and an ointment he’s supposed to get twice a day and still hasn’t forgiven me for.
According to the vet techs, he was a perfect angel and they wanted to keep him. The scratches on my hand from his does this morning think they must have had him confused with another cat.
Gwyd, meanwhile, has been sweet, wonderful, and drama free.
Maybe we’re fostering the wrong cat.
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