Cat doesn’t want to get out of the bag.

So maybe I thought I’d start writing in a blog again after depriving myself of this narcissitic opportunity for two years or so. With all this time to kill waiting for my next job, I figured it would be a healthier time wasting option as opposed to occupying my mouth, which always seems to crave action whenever I’m bored. That probably came out the wrong way. Although as I write this, there’s a pot filled with water at the brink of boiling, waiting for pierogies to be gently released into.

The cat was ill last night. Well, really she had been ill for awhile. But we attributed it to the usual languid quality of cats. She had been sleeping next to the radiator for a higher percentage of the day, curled up like the feline version of the Firefox logo. After two days of the usual “I can’t believe how lazy she’s gotten” jokes, the future overprotective parent in me materialised briefly yesterday and I insisted on a vet-trip at quarter past nine.  
The trip to the vet was possible the most horrifying animal experience I’ve encountered. Peach merely had a “fever of unknown origins.” Vet lingo for “Hooray I don’t know what problem is, but I can charge you money!”  However, her interaction with the vet .. was oddly similar to a pack of cavemen cornering a sabre tooth tiger. Even with falconry gloves, the vet tech still had a hell of a time getting her out of her carrier. It was accompanied by scraching, hissing, and the most feral blood curdling yowling I’ve heard come out of a living creature.
Throughout the exam, Catty was screaming/crying/howling/yowling/hissing/screeching/spitting. This continued behind closed doors where her blood was being taken, and fluid injected into back for rehydration. We could hear reinforcements in the form of extra vet techs (and the receptionist) come partake in the rodeo. Throughout this audible ordeal, Alex and I looked helplessly at each other and cringing periodically when ear splitting screams emerged from the other room. I think we agreed that the most accurate way to describe the sounds were as if a human baby had been stabbed and was crying at the top of its lungs.
Well, despite that, the vet assured us (or maybe humoured us?) that she wasn’t quite as bad as they come. He mentioned once they had a feral cat that leapt out of its box, hit the ceiling and knocked open the ceiling panels. He then stayed on the roof for a week, with random sightings by patients until he was finally caught in a trap. Well. Considering all that, I suppose catty wasn’t that bad. Although I’d like to imagine that they charged us a pretty penny extra because of the shit she put them through (and had to go through.) As we were shelling out 180 painful dollars, a vet tech walked out with a little quivery pomeranian in his hands and eyed Catty. “I know, your cat could beat up my dog anytime.”
The moment our beloved cat stepped out of the vet, she was her usual calm rumply self. In fact, last night and this morning, she seemed much more chipper than she had been in days, even seeing fit to bring up and drop one of her cat toys in our bedroom, something which she hadn’t done when she was ill. Damn it. I’m awful glad she’s better, but spending all that money which was possibly unecessary, made it unethically bittersweet. What a costly peace of mind.

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