|Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009|
12:37p - Variation on a Theme
I seem to be stuck in a rut. Yesterday, I took Spelunker to the vet for the same old problem -- vomiting. The difference is that since his first visit to the vet's I'd tried to apply a liquid dewormer between his shoulder blades and pretty much missed. Throw that $13.00 down the drain.
So, bright and early Monday morning, I called the vet's office (the one who had diagnosed the problem originally, not the one that sold me the liquid drench) and took the next available appointment -- Tuesday at 1:30.
Spelunker wasn't eating well, but was not completely off his feed. He's generally quite a good traveler. I didn't want to upset him further, so no harness and lead, no crate. I hand-carried him to the car, thinking in this lovely fall weather, the car would not be too hot for him with the windows cracked like I did during the spring.
Wrong! By the time I got to town (17 miles, windows cheerfully down most of the way, but AC on at the end, the internal temperature gauge read 79 degrees. (Windows were rolled up when Spelunker decided to take an inordinate interest in things passing out the window, not because the temperature was too bad inside while in motion...) Knowing his propensity for crawling under the brake pedal while he awaited my return, I decided with him not feeling the best, he;d most likely vomit on the leather seats as the heat buildup sickened him further. I dropped him off at the vet's about 11, where he was crated in the cat room, a reasonable temperature and place he's been often before.
I went to lunch at Breadeaux, a pizza place with a lunch buffet. Normally, by 1, most of the townies have cleared out, and that was true that day, as well. Only one party of four vaguely familiar women followed me in. A couple of non-locals were in the booth across from me.
Yet, given this low volume, lunch turned out to be a little more entertaining than I expected. Everyone in there contributed. The gal behind the counter assured me I had time to eat. The buffet didn't close down until 1:30.
Well, I had time to DIP UP, but not consume... The cheese sticks were nearly new, and I took three or four of them, a miscellaneous meat and an olive topped supreme-ish style. I can't handle the spicy sausage, which is what the meat turned out to be, or the onions liberally sprinkled through the olive topped one. I picked out mushrooms and olives, putting them on top of the cheese sticks and called it good. What with the lettuce salad, spoonful of potato salad, three slices of vinegared tomatoes and four peach slivers slathered in cottage cheese, I still managed to over-eat. I am definitely "broke to eat". My elbow bends freely and finds my mouth frequently. Culpa mia.
When the couple across from me got ready to leave, the lady pulled out a guide book and they conferred. The husband disappeared for a while, and the woman approached. "Are you from here?"
"Yes, sort of. Close by. I'm rural."
"Can you tell me where the Cooky Baking Factory is?"
I was stumped. I've lived within 17 miles of Corydon since 1976 and did not know it HAD a cookie-baking factory. "I don't know. I've never heard of it," I admitted with embarrassment. I suggested she check with the girl at the counter, but she could not attract anyone's attention at the unattended counter. As her husband said, "They're probably eating."
One of the four familiar ladies walked by. I relayed the conversation with the couple's wife to her, and she consulted the other four. None of them, Corydon natives, had ever heard of it, either.
The counter woman appeared. She headed down to the foursome's table and announced, "We had an accident in the kitchen, The cheese sticks fell on the floor. Do you still want them?"
I roared with laughter, barely suppressing the urge to quip, "Thirty second rule applies," a sure sign I'd spent far too many years eating in the school cafeteria.
"We can make another batch," she continued doggedly over general laughter.
The woman then answered our now joint query about the Cooky Baking Factory. Some Breadeaux's have Café Basil, like Corydon's, and others have The Cookie Baking Factory. "We'd have to bake them," she justified. After allowing a tray of cheese sticks to fall off the end of the conveyer belt, I can see where that is a legitimate concern. I took the time to jot down the salient points on a napkin, cleared my table, and left.
I was late back to the vet's. Not to worry. They were still backed up, and Spelunker had yet to be seen. Angie fetched him, and he cuddled with her the way a shy child hangs onto a long-lost friend. The grinding noise from a treatment being given to a large animal in the large space just off the door to the cattery unnerved him. No temp. No stool sample -- I never thought about collecting one. I'd SEEN and FELT the tape worm segments, so I had no doubt in my mind of the diagnosis. The vet pointed out that maybe other worms were also present. The blood work-up showed nothing unusual, so she removed a knitting needle long device with an oblong loop for collection of the sample about 2 1/2" up Spelunker, coming out whistle-clean... No poop to be had.
I needed to hit the courthouse and grocery store yet, so he was re-crated and fed, hoping that nature would take it's course by the time I got back. By 3, I was back, but although he had eaten, he had not performed. As A. suggested that I leave him overnight, I said, "So has to stay overnight?" 'Great minds think alike' moment.'
I went home along. I was upset, and used the milk and meat in the cooler in the trunk as an excuse not to go on across to Centerville and drop off the library books. I was not handling his incarceration well at all. This morning, when I called in, G did not respond well at first. "Did Spelunker void?" I asked, adopting A.'s terminology, assuming it was office-standard jargon-speak... Grace responded, "What?" I repeated it. I knew she was standing right there yesterday when I brought him in, when he went to the cattery, when he went into the vet's room for treatment, and when I went back to retrieve him... Spelunker, who spent two weeks in their care (while she was working)...
I repeated my message. She twigged to Spelunker that time, but had no clue how a cat voided. Once I'd switched to the vernacular "Did he finally poop?" she was able to answer, "Yes." After all, she DOES KNOW if she cleaned the kitty litter in his cage, or not... especially when they are specifically waiting for a stool sample.
"I'll check and call you back." That was early this morning. It is now 1:10 -- No call back yet. Dr. Whitney checked the stool -- it is clean. No sign of vomiting. So, no clue what's up with Spelunker. This seems to be where I came in...
Realizing that CW is due in less than an hour and generally stays past closing time, I doubt I'll hear back from the library before I have to take care of business, so I called them to renew the ones from their collection and asked if I paid another $1.25 on the inter-library loan, if I could renew it, as well.
"You've heard people say, 'The dog ate my homework?' I have a variation on that theme... My cat called in sick."
current mood: long-winded
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