I'm convinced that the medicinal regimen that the veterinarian put Sadie on is in fact a subversive psychological experiment to see how long it will take before my cat tries to rip my eyes out via my nostrils.
On Monday night I noticed that she had a wound on her stomach. I'm not talking about a scratch or anything like that. I'm talking a skin-flapping, gut-churning, glistening thing that could have fit a silver dollar inside.
Gross. Gross.
So I took her into the vet Monday morning and of course they want to run a blood test. Just because she was running a fever and had a gaping chest wound. The nerve of the guy.
Anyway, twice daily I have to clean the thing out, then slather some goo on it from another bottle. Then, because my cat refuses to eat the hollow fishy treats that are supposed to hold her pills, I get to shove a turkey baster down her throat and inject the damned thing right into her throat.
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This is probably the third or fourth attempt in my life to start a blog. But these blogs are run by our benevolent Google Overlords, so I have faith that I'll be able to keep it up for a while.
I've also got a lot of thinkin' time at work so that's a help.
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When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up. -CS Lewis
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