Wednesday, June 21, 2006
It's always something
This is supposed to be the blog entry where I wax ecstatic about the last week or two. Maybe something entitled “Sometimes you can’t make it on your own,” celebrating the help of good friends in moving me into my new home on Saturday, helping me paint beautiful rooms sea swell and lilac tan, joining me in the adventures of Hanging Curtains for Super-Sized Ginormous Windows…
Instead, it’s the blog where I’m sad and worried and Buddy is sick. (Here he is his curious self the day before he stopped moving.) He hasn’t eaten since Monday, is running a high kitty fever, doesn’t talk, doesn’t fight, doesn’t frisk, barely moves. Sniffs at water, doesn’t groom, is shedding in one day what he usually loses in a month. Not to mention the two little issues he's had right outside the litter box on our shiny wood floors. Roseanne Roseanna Danna might say he sounds like a real attractive guy.
The vet says he’s definitely sick, but he sure doesn’t know why. Of course. Dr. Bill talks to me nice like I’m smart and not on the verge of tears, using big long chemistry-y words, but all I hear are the occasional blips: “cancer,” “hepatitis,” “failure.” Buddy's white blood cells and red blood cells and a variety of liver functions are all wonkier than my unevenly self-installed, warped-Home-Depot-wood make-shift curtain rods. The vet says the combination of blood results and symptoms don’t make sense together. Could be a virus, or “overwhelming bacteria.” Could be liver disease, or who knows. The doctor will call us to check up tomorrow, and if Buddy's not well by Friday we have to go back for more tests.
So my little trooper had himself a subcutaneous kitty transfusion of fluids and nourishment and we came home armed with anti-biotics and liquid calories, which I’m waiting to force on him till we all settle in a bit more. Right now I’m torn between trying to keep him from bleeding and leaking from his transfusion all over my fresh-from-storage loveseats and bawling out of worry.
But three curiously-strong 30-something friends (and one 29-and-11/12-thing) did help me move in this weekend. And my new home is beautiful and I love the sounds of the city and the breeze of the ocean and the fact that I can walk down four flights of stairs and make multiple trips in one hour to my local hardware store across the street.
Now I have expenses to tally, neighbors to meet, boxes to unpack, emails and projects to get back to, and, oh yeah, a sick baby.
It was only a matter of time before my blog voice started channeling Gilda Radner.
p.s. Georgianna is fine and she loooooooves our new home.