Earlier today I noticed that Maggie the cat's left eye wasn't quite right. It was red and the little internal eyelid thingy was halfway covering her eye. (What's that thing called? In reptiles and amphibians it's called a nictitating membrane. Is it the same for cats? Clearly that biology education has paid off handsomely!) She's had that happen before, but the vet gave me some ointment to put in her eye and it cleared right up. Unfortunately I no longer have that ointment, so after keeping a close eye on her today and noting that her eye didn't appear to be getting any better I decided to take her to the emergency vet clinic.
Shortly after arriving I began to feel like maybe I'd jumped the gun. I saw a dog who had been attacked by bees, one who was on the losing end of a skirmish with a lawnmower, and one poor little fella who had suffered a stroke and could barely stand on his own feet. I dejectedly surveyed the carnage while Maggie rolled around in her carrier, enthusiastically batting around her catnip mouse.
Once my name was called and I took Maggie in to see the vet I immediately began to apologize. I said I was pretty sure I'd overreacted and normally I would just swing by the vet tomorrow, but I had jury duty and I figured they wouldn't be too sympathetic to my cat's optical needs if I decided I had to leave court. I didn't want to wait until Tuesday and let a potential infection develop, but if they wanted me to go so they could move on to the more serious injuries I would totally understand. The vet said that wasn't necessary, so I stood and stewed in my guilt while he took a gander at Maggie's eye. He asked all the questions about vaccinations, blah blah animal stuff, and said that it might have been caused by a minor trauma of some sort.
I should probably explain here that Maggie, as sweet, lovable, and wonderful as she is, has all the grace of a three-legged camel. I have never seen a clumsier animal. She will stretch with a little too much gusto and roll off the chair she's lounging on or get so excited running around the house that she skids and crashes into a wall because she can never stop in time. So when the vet mentioned the "minor trauma" diagnosis I chuckled and said that she'd probably walked into a door or something. As soon as the words left my mouth I heard the echoes of stories I'd heard about battered women trying to protect their abusers by blaming the cause of their cuts and bruises on falling down stairs or walking into a door. I couldn't believe I'd made that stupid comment, so I blurted out, "I promise I don't beat my cat!" The vet just looked at me for a moment, furrowed his brow, nodded, and went about his business.
Funky-eyed Maggie and I left shortly thereafter, complete with some eyedrops that she is going to LOVE. I imagine the veterinary staff called the Cat Protective Services hotline as soon as we left.
On a related note, how cool would it be to work in the disciplinary division of the Animal Protective Services that exists only in my mind? There's no way I could be one of the people who actually rescues neglected and abused animals, because I would be reduced to a sobbing snotty mess if I saw that kind of bullshit firsthand. But if there were a group that doled out the punishment to the fuckheads who do that stuff? Oh hells yeah, where do I sign up?!?! I'd tie the offenders to a chair and tell them that they were going to get a beatdown for a few minutes and to shut the hell up about it because I didn't feel like listening to their crap, and after I was done I'd throw a can of pork and beans at their head and then run like hell.
That would be awesome.
Shortly after arriving I began to feel like maybe I'd jumped the gun. I saw a dog who had been attacked by bees, one who was on the losing end of a skirmish with a lawnmower, and one poor little fella who had suffered a stroke and could barely stand on his own feet. I dejectedly surveyed the carnage while Maggie rolled around in her carrier, enthusiastically batting around her catnip mouse.
Once my name was called and I took Maggie in to see the vet I immediately began to apologize. I said I was pretty sure I'd overreacted and normally I would just swing by the vet tomorrow, but I had jury duty and I figured they wouldn't be too sympathetic to my cat's optical needs if I decided I had to leave court. I didn't want to wait until Tuesday and let a potential infection develop, but if they wanted me to go so they could move on to the more serious injuries I would totally understand. The vet said that wasn't necessary, so I stood and stewed in my guilt while he took a gander at Maggie's eye. He asked all the questions about vaccinations, blah blah animal stuff, and said that it might have been caused by a minor trauma of some sort.
I should probably explain here that Maggie, as sweet, lovable, and wonderful as she is, has all the grace of a three-legged camel. I have never seen a clumsier animal. She will stretch with a little too much gusto and roll off the chair she's lounging on or get so excited running around the house that she skids and crashes into a wall because she can never stop in time. So when the vet mentioned the "minor trauma" diagnosis I chuckled and said that she'd probably walked into a door or something. As soon as the words left my mouth I heard the echoes of stories I'd heard about battered women trying to protect their abusers by blaming the cause of their cuts and bruises on falling down stairs or walking into a door. I couldn't believe I'd made that stupid comment, so I blurted out, "I promise I don't beat my cat!" The vet just looked at me for a moment, furrowed his brow, nodded, and went about his business.
Funky-eyed Maggie and I left shortly thereafter, complete with some eyedrops that she is going to LOVE. I imagine the veterinary staff called the Cat Protective Services hotline as soon as we left.
On a related note, how cool would it be to work in the disciplinary division of the Animal Protective Services that exists only in my mind? There's no way I could be one of the people who actually rescues neglected and abused animals, because I would be reduced to a sobbing snotty mess if I saw that kind of bullshit firsthand. But if there were a group that doled out the punishment to the fuckheads who do that stuff? Oh hells yeah, where do I sign up?!?! I'd tie the offenders to a chair and tell them that they were going to get a beatdown for a few minutes and to shut the hell up about it because I didn't feel like listening to their crap, and after I was done I'd throw a can of pork and beans at their head and then run like hell.
That would be awesome.
2 Comments:
You had my almost-17-year old giggling her head off. How many times will I say you are possibly the most talented writer in this area? As many times that I comment here, probably. Oh, glad Maggie got her eyedrops.
I think if I worked for that division of Animal Services, I'd have to employ a little Reservoir Dogs technique to the punishment. "Here I am, stuck in the middle with you..."
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