7 July 08

Clawed

Diego had four teeth out last week. It was a miserable time for him, for us: he’s not yet four, and some kind of autoimmune virus thingy was just eating away at the roots of the teeth on the lower left of his mouth. All my vet friends say better out than in; he’ll learn to eat hard food (and in fact is already eating it with alacrity) and will get along fine. I feel like a failure as a pet-owner and all the rest. But after all, if he doesn’t need to catch his food, what does he really need teeth for? (I try to convince myself of this. Ha.)

The hard part, though, is the antibiotics. You mix the powder with water and shake hard, hoping its volatility lasts through the heat wave. (Unlikely.) The cat hears the syringe and hides under the bed, in the closet, or in one or two other places we have not been able to discern, even though there are only so many places to hide in 600 square feet.

I depress the plunger as claws from front and back feet try and get some kind of purchase on my flesh, hoping the banana-smelling stuff has gotten down his gullet in enough quantity to prevent whatever infection might be brewing, the source of impossibly larger vet bills.

My legs look like I’ve been running through brambles…

Posted by at 09:08 PM in Cats | Link |
  1. My gran once asked me to help her take the temperature of her cat. Naiive child that I was, I assumed we’d just stick the thermometer into its mouth… I don’t think the cat ever forgave me!


    richard    9. July 2008, 13:40    Link

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