Boo Boo Kitty

I had already texted Scott to tell him something was wrong. He was prepared to help me brace for the worst.

“Sweetie, you have to remember, you got her from the pound. They only had her for a while. You don’t know what kind of illness she may have had before then.”

I know that but I don’t even want to think about it.

I am surprised to find myself on the verge of tears. “I know. I’d be so happy to come home to find a pile of cat throw up and Trinket feeling like a kitten again bounding all over the house. I’d take two throw ups for that.”

“I know,” he says. “But you should prepare yourself for more than that.”

This is a man with 4 dogs and a cat and until recently, a bunny, too. He has rescued countless animals and has had dogs all his life. Buried many. I can’t even begin to imagine.

Once at work I tell a few folks what is on my mind. I feel silly. I actually want to call the cat on the phone to see how she’s feeling. Why do I feel so guilty leaving her alone? My mother used to leave me all bundled up on the sofa for hours while she ran hither and yon during one of my illnesses. (Inclusive of the one when Joe put his toe nail clippings in my cup of Tang, which was not the reason for my illness, but a follow up injury instead.)

I am practically inside out with worry. I toy with the idea of calling Charlotte to have her take a look in on Trinket. Or asking my neighbor to keep her company for a bit. Or asking the kids to go to my house after school instead of to Lars’ just to check on her before I get home. (But I scrap that idea…what if they walk in to find her dead as a door nail and stiff as a board? I’d have to forfeit the Mother of the Year crown, for sure.)

After a few morning meetings, I go on line to find the veterinary clinic near my house. I dial and get a sweet woman on the phone and find myself nearly in tears talking to her about what Trinket is normally like, and why today’s little demonstration of pathetic behavior stands out to me. “Aww. Poor baby girl. Sounds like she should be seen by someone.”

Yes. Yes it does. I make the appointment and begin to pack up some work to do from Sick Bay after the appointment, which I am cautiously hopeful about.

I am surprised to find that as I tell my colleagues about my plans for the afternoon, I am nearly unable to speak. Without crying that is. I can not believe how attached I am to this tiny little fur ball. When did this happen to me????

I talk to Scott on the way home and he is helpful. Cautious about what I might find but telling me I am doing the right thing. Prepares me for the financial part of pet ownership. A sick pet can get very expensive. Don’t make rash decisions. All I can think is “please let her not have died while I was at work filing some idiotic online government report.” I’d hate myself for ages.

I scream into the neighborhood and run inside to see Trinket. She does not greet me at the door. Not a good sign.

I call her name. I air kiss a few times to get her to come to me as I walk through the first floor. Nothing.

Food remains untouched. Water bowl is full. Uh-oh.

I tiptoe upstairs (Why the need for quiet? I don’t know.) and look around expectantly. No kitty.

I turn to go into my bedroom and there she is.

In the little pink plush kitty bed she was in when I left 5 hours ago. Same position.

But she opens her eyes to look at me sadly. She is alive.