I promised myself I wouldn't let the old Teapot Dome degenerate
into a freakish cat blog
(mainly because I know I have these dark cat-related depths within
me). However, I'm going to make an exception today because I'm going
crazy waiting for a callback from the vet with the results of my
cat Smarmy's bloodwork. Apparently the urine sample indicated a
liver or gall bladder problem, so they took some blood to see what's
up.
We originally took Smarms to the vet yesterday because of a little
lump on his head. Taking any animal to the vet is generally an unpleasant
experience, but Smarmy becomes an entirely different creature altogether.
At home, he is the sweetest, laziest, most docile creature. At the
vet, he becomes this snarling, hissing, writhing, scratching menace.
I knew it was bad yesterday when the vet -- who has a glossy 11x17
of himself on the wall inscribed with the words "The Cat Whisperer"
-- yelled "GET THE GLOVES" to a co-worker after a failed
attempt to weigh Smarms.
However, "The Cat Whisperer" fared better than Dr. Katz
(I'm not making that up) in Amherst, who ended up with a 7-inch
bloody scratch down his forearm. While I'm generally humiliated
by Smarms' bad form at the vet, in retrospect I think Smarms may
have responded appropriately to Dr. Katz, who ascribed an itchy
condition that caused Smarms to lick off all his belly fur to "narcissism"
and "masturbating" ("He's into some weird stuff here,
this cat"). Of course, it turned out to be just allergies.
("What are you going to do -- test a cat for allergies?"
Dr. Katz had said.)
Anyway, all of this is to say that I'm freaking out and distracted
waiting for them to call back. I'll keep you, dear three readers,
posted on Smarms' results.
