Been nursing a skin-and-bones, rack-of-ribs cat back to health. Buster the Feather Duster quit eating a week or more ago and as we practically weighed the options of taking him to the vet (where bills are expensive) or trying to cure him ourselves it became evident urgent action was necessary. So off to the vet we (me and he) went where we spent the better part of 2 hours waiting for a vet who had an emergency crop up in the back. Another poor beast kept going into cardiac arrest as we waited. The poor thing had died by the time we’d finally been seen. And weirdly the vet gave us a discount for having to wait so long.
My feline may have kidney failure or an infection. The only way to really tell is to spend lots more on tests. We don’t have lots more to spend so we are nursing him at home with freshly cooked whizzed up liver syringed into his clamped down jaws. It’s a sensory experience. So stinky and most of it seems to get shot all over me (even down my cleavage once) and not into said cat’s lips.
The good news is he has started to eat again and is getting his little belly back.
In other news, I am my own psychological mess these days and am trying not to get any on my kids. I have obviously failed at this. Why just this morning as I was chatting to boy child about why he would be going to after school care (“Mama is hoping to get a job soon and then…”) when he interrupted with “And then you will be happy?” Sigh. Frig.