Of course, you'll be reading this entry before the following entry, even through the following one was written first.
What I'm really mad about is... Well, I don't know. I'm not mad at Buddy. I'm not mad at the vet. I'm not mad at God. I'm not mad at me. But, I'm mad, and sad, and confused.
Buddy and I had a vet appointment today that I'd been looking forward to for two weeks. Everyone kept telling me to "get a second opinion." This would be the third vet we'd visited in his three years. I'd let myself believe that this new vet was going to have answers, nay - miracles. I'd made notes, practiced everything I was going to say.
I said it all. She listened. Buddy was so scared and angry that the vet could not even examine him, and we went home without them drawing any blood or offering us any insight, encouragement, or hope. This is the second vet we've been to who - along with her technician, wrapped in protective gear up to the armpits - has given us the impression they have never encountered an animal as dangerously angry-aggressive at the vet's office as Buddy, and that he is untreatable. Well, one light of hope/possibility: she did tell me there is a visiting vet who makes house calls and if Buddy's more relaxed at home (he is a smushy lovebug at home! But how can they believe this when they're fearing for their eyes and fingers?!), maybe the visiting vet could come draw his blood here, since he has to have it drawn for them to prescribe more (noneffective) medicine.
Grrrr! I was so embarrassed, and scared, and disappointed. Buddy was so scared, and offended, and puffed up, hissing, growling, indescribably inconsolable. When two of them holding him down were not enough, the vet went out to get a second assistant, and the first assistant lost control of Buddy and he fell off the table, ran to a corner, and she wrestled him into her (gloved) hands, where he growled, spit, pooped on her, and convinced the returning vet and second tech that he was untouchable. The vet aborted the office visit (giving me no interpretation of any of the symptoms/situations I've observed in his recent nearly daily seizures, and no suggestion of alternative treatment), I paid my $45, right down the drain (I think she did give me a reduced rate since a first visit is usually twice that), Buddy growled as we went home, then got out of the bag and rubbed lovingly, sweetly, alarmingly unaggressively against my legs and I feel crazy.
I wanted to go down to the vet's office and drag the vet and her two techs back here with me so they could see what a sweetheart he is. But, I have nothing to prove to them, they probably don't care, or maybe they really do know he's only like this at the vet's office. He's a special needs guy, and it was so noisy there. He's highly sensitive to sound and touch (as any crack baby would be). But if you could only see and feel him when he snuggles up at 6:30 in the morning.
We have a new (potential) housecleaner coming to "interview" tomorrow. She said in an email, and I quote, "I love cats and don't mind epileptic fits." Sweet.
Well, I'm not mad any more. I'm off to project my feelings onto a piece of Enteman's chocolate cake.