Angry kitty and panic-mode Piglet
I was late for work today. When I went to pet Soes this morning (after leaving Zena in the living room because she kept hissing at panicky Soes-in-a-plaster last night) I noticed that she had five paws instead of four. I was still quite sleepy, but I was pretty sure that was not the intented result of the operation. Upon closer inspection I noticed her injured paw was not in her plaster, where it was meant to stay till Thursday. Nice. I went into my ever-so-helpful panic-mode and phoned the vet who told me it wasn't such a disaster (his colleague had told me differently yesterday), as long as I made sure she didn't jump off anything. Right. That's easy. Not. Soes is our climbing-cat. If cats could climb Mount Everest, she'd be first in line.
So I moved Soes to the master bedroom, the place with the lowest furniture in the house. Filled a litterbox, brought some food (and the medication she promptly ignored) and water and prayed she'd keep still there. She didn't like it one little bit. I think the upstairs is not her territory (nice to know there are still some areas of the house where felines are not in charge). All day at work I was worried about her. In my fantasy she'd broken out of the bedroom, hobbled down the stairs, fallen and broken her neck. What can I say, I have a flair for the dramatic. When my colleague asked if I was worried and I told her my fears, she started laughing. "Imagine spending all that money on the operation and then she goes and dies on you". Hilarious.
She didn't fall down the stairs. When I carried her downstairs the other two hissed at her, and she climbed on top of the scratching pole as soon as I'd turned my back. And jumped back off.
So I had to buy her a bench.
She does not like it.
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I was late for work today. When I went to pet Soes this morning (after leaving Zena in the living room because she kept hissing at panicky Soes-in-a-plaster last night) I noticed that she had five paws instead of four. I was still quite sleepy, but I was pretty sure that was not the intented result of the operation. Upon closer inspection I noticed her injured paw was not in her plaster, where it was meant to stay till Thursday. Nice. I went into my ever-so-helpful panic-mode and phoned the vet who told me it wasn't such a disaster (his colleague had told me differently yesterday), as long as I made sure she didn't jump off anything. Right. That's easy. Not. Soes is our climbing-cat. If cats could climb Mount Everest, she'd be first in line.
So I moved Soes to the master bedroom, the place with the lowest furniture in the house. Filled a litterbox, brought some food (and the medication she promptly ignored) and water and prayed she'd keep still there. She didn't like it one little bit. I think the upstairs is not her territory (nice to know there are still some areas of the house where felines are not in charge). All day at work I was worried about her. In my fantasy she'd broken out of the bedroom, hobbled down the stairs, fallen and broken her neck. What can I say, I have a flair for the dramatic. When my colleague asked if I was worried and I told her my fears, she started laughing. "Imagine spending all that money on the operation and then she goes and dies on you". Hilarious.
She didn't fall down the stairs. When I carried her downstairs the other two hissed at her, and she climbed on top of the scratching pole as soon as I'd turned my back. And jumped back off.
So I had to buy her a bench.
She does not like it.
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