Catnapped - again!!

Gary is a little pissed off - and I don't blame him.

It's been nearly two years since he was last catnapped and he didn't enjoy that experience either.

Now it's happened again; on Thursday, about 5.30pm.

I received a call from someone at the council from Pet Control regarding Gary. (Actually, I don't think it's really called Pet Control, but it was something like that.)  I confess, my first thought was that he'd been squashed on a road somewhere, but no, just a call to ask me to retrieve him, uninjured, from the emergency animal hospital on Dandenong Road.

The council person explained they'd tracked me down via his microchip and that the vet at the hospital was concerned that Gary was so skinny. Seriously, I've never had Child Protection knock at my door, but I did have a bit of insight at that moment of what it might feel like.

Before I had time to get too defensive, she did say she'd check his file (Gary has a file!!) and noted that he is 15, so maybe that's why he's scrawny.

I still felt compelled to let her know that we are caring and responsible cat owners, we lock him in at night, give him medication twice a day for his dodgy thyroid and that he's basically living the life of Riley.

Anyway... yet again, some do-gooder had scrapped Gary up, most likely from right outside our house, and zipped him off to the animal hospital. Gee - that would have been a fun ride without a cat-carrier and knowing that most times Gary's put in a car, his immediate response is to do a really big, sloppy, smelly poo.

Like the previous post, he was wearing a collar from our vet with his name on it. It wasn't like he could be mistaken for a stray. I mentioned this to the lady from Pet Control, but she said the hospital hadn't mentioned a collar.

Sass and her friend arrived home - did they want to come and pick up Gary? No - so not.

I was forced to schlep alone through peak-hour traffic to the hospital - around 30 minutes. Such bad timing. If at any point, you're thinking of taking Gary to a vet, just because, could you at least make it outside of peak hour, please?

On arrival, I tried to ascertain what idiot had scrapped Gazza up from his own street, whilst minding his own business, and rushed him to the hospital - but they were giving me nothing. The woman there claimed to only know that he'd been dropped off. (BTW, I didn't use the word 'idiot' while I was there - it was more of your polite, vague enquiry.)

We're were going against the traffic on the way home so it was a quicker trip than the way there. Nor did Gary, secure in his cat-carrier, empty his bowels - he must have done that earlier with the good samaritans. I guess as the saying goes, righteousness is its own punishment!

Gary - pleased to be home!

Fail

No - not the rowing - that's later today.

This happened on Friday night just as I was packing to leave.

My mobile was ringing and it was the vet, so Sass answered. After a short period of confusion, she said, Hang on, I'll put Mum on.

Hi, so...um... we have Gary here....

Gary was perfectly fine. As it transpired, a couple had spotted him - probably right outside our house - and recognised the collar I'd left on him since he was last boarding at the vet. I can only imagine they have pets who go there as it's a generic hospital-type tag with no reason to connect it. It looks like this.

Anyway, for some reason, they supposed Gary had escaped said vet, so got him in their car and drove him there.

I can imagine that short drive wasn't pleasant. Gary hates the car and yowls the entire way - but when I take him, he's trapped in a cat carrier - and I assume on this trip he was free ranging.

Arriving at the vet, the receptionist  bought into the escape story pandemonium and panic ensued; staff were informed, cages were checked and heads counted.... nope, no-one missing.

Booking were finally referred to and yep - Gary wasn't meant to be there.

Hmmm.

I have no idea if the well meaning couple were still on the premises - I almost hope not. Whoops.

Need a laugh? Pop into the vet.

When I say 'laugh', I don't mean that slightly hysterical, nervous laugh you involuntarily emit when they tell you how much you owe them - because if you have a pet, that's axiomatic.

I seriously believe the veterinary clinic has been overlooked as a sitcom opportunity, evidenced by one of my pre-Christmas stints in the waiting room. Picture this:

A heavily decaled station wagon, with palm trees, tropical flowers, blue skies and a Paradise Pet Resort branding rolls into the car park. An extremely large man dressed in black pants and a black shirt with the resort's logo embroidered on the pocket heaves himself out of the car and lumbers in. It would have been so much funnier if he'd talked in  Little Britain-type camp voice - he didn't but you can pretend.

Good morning, he says to the girl behind the desk. I'm John from the Paradise Pet Resort.... I have a booking for Tipsy and Mr Pickles.
Ah! she replied. Yes, Tipsy is here but I haven't seen Mr Pickles this morning. Let me give his owner a call and see where he is.

She catches one of the nurses as she goes past. Could you get Tipsy ready to go to the resort, please?

She then makes the call and it's clear she has to leave a message: Hi, it's Chrissy from the vet, just wondering if Mr Pickles will be here shortly? His transfer to the resort has arrived and will be leaving in about 15 minutes. If you could give us a call that'd be great. If he doesn't make it this morning, there's another transfer on Wednesday. Thank you.

As Tipsy was brought to reception in a cage and unceremoniously slid into the back of the car, no one was laughing, everyone was very serious and business-like. You'd think they were transferring guests at The Mirage in Fiji.

Is this what they do at a cat resort??

There does seem to be an unspoken competition for who can give their cat the silliest name (and surely 'Gary' is up there) but I don't think I could have those kinds of conversations without at least a little giggle. Perhaps they're all immune.

As I was leaving, a lady came in with a small child; We're here to collect Sizzle.  Of course they were!

The Gold Plated Cat

Gary is ginger - sort of gold - which makes sense given how much he's about to cost me.

In fairness, so far he's been a cheap ride. He was gifted to us by neighbours heading OS, he's happy to eat Aldi cat food and aside from immunisations and a bit of arthritis, his medical expenses have been minimal; until now.

He was looking very ordinary after the recent heatwave. In truth, over the last few months, he's been eating like a horse but getting skinnier and skinnier. 

Geoff: Do you think the cat has cancer?

Me: Maybe. But he seems happy enough. 

His lack of health on the weekend could not be ignored. I wasn't even convinced he'd see Monday.

Anyway, I did take him to the vet who ran through the options - including euthanising him. But if it was just a thyroid problem, that could be fixed and apparently we'd get a few more years out of him. To determine that he needed to be admitted and popped on a drip and have blood and urine samples taken. How much, I asked. I'd already decided if it was hundreds, I'd say yes but if it was more, goodbye Gary. Naturally it was something like $965. Damn it!! 

The vet added if he needed to stay longer, it's $3-400 a day. $3-400??!! The most expensive hotel I can find on LastMinute.com is only $338 a night - and that's at the fancy-pants casino - not in a very small cage at the suburban vet next to a big dog.

Sass and I visited him this morning and he has perked up considerably. She was so relieved. Here they are.

The vet rang before with news. I can't even decide if it's good or bad. I'm torn. It is his thyroid and possibly a little something else - but treatable with a tablet or two a day. Great, I said, should we pick him up? Of course it's not that simple. They need to keep him in for a few days and monitor him while they get the right level of medication - at $3-400 a day!!!! And if he has to take a tablet every day, we'll have to take him to South Australia with us - an 8 hour drive. 

Yep - the joy of Christmas.

Cool (Cold?) Cats

My friend Georgie was telling me about her cat last week. It had been hit by a car and sustained some pretty horrific injuries. Against her better judgement, she allowed the vet to talk her into treating rather than euthanising. And here she is, some weeks and more than three and half grand later, with one very sad cat. In spite of her 'investment', she's not convinced that putting the poor thing down might not still be the best option. I'm sure she'll make the right decision.

It reminded me of when our old cat Koshka expired his nine lives. He'd become so fragile and senile we'd had to contain him to the back garden as he'd twice wandered off and couldn't find his way home. On both occasions, some good Samaritans delivered him to the local vet and being micro chipped, they called for me to go and collect him. He was 17 or 18 and pretty much on his last paws.

The end was pretty painless - for us. We'd been holidaying and came home to a note on the door from a vet asking to call. To cut a long story short, our elderly neighbour had been feeding him and noticed something wasn't right so asked another neighbour to help. Having their own menagerie, they whipped Koshka up to the 24/7 vet where a seizure was diagnosed. They admitted him, made him comfortable but he died before we were back in the country. Which turned out to be kind of lucky.... the vet said as we hadn't been there to gain permission, they'd treated him as a stray and there was no charge. I did offer, but they wouldn't take it.

The vet said I could come and collect him if I wanted to bury him in the garden. I did. I took some flowers for the vet, one of the kids and Koshka's basket. The vet took the basket and brought it back, loaded with one cold dead cat, straight from the freezer in a calico bag. I wanted to offer again to pay, but at that exact moment, a small, distressed child with a parent and a cardboard box burst into the room. 'Excuse me one moment please,' said the vet. The child looked my way and in a moment of panic, I slammed the dead cat, in its basket, against my chest lest she notice. I stood there for a good ten minutes with the very cold cat sucking the warmth from my body before I had the opportunity to offer the vet money -  which was again declined.

I was fond of Koshka. He was as a loyal as a dog to me. But at the end of the day, and perhaps because I was dealing with bigger kid issues, I realised he was just the cat.