Cat Scratch Fever

A little beach time, a little BBQ and soon all too soon, the holiday weekend is over.

It is a sad time for me. I will not see the kids off to school on their first day back. They will be with Lars. Pat is starting High School. Hil will be top dog in Middle School.  I would not be welcome to come to Lars' home to take an embarassing photo or tuck a note and a snack into the backpacks at the last minute. No, Lars would prefer that the kids let the New Liza do that, now that she is squatting there full time. He so wantsher to replace me. How foolish he can be.

So to avoid the melancholia of being nearby and not near enough, and driving through the school zone and hoping to see them when I know I won't, and missing the sweet smell of Hil's new lotions and potions she picked out especially for the return to school, I stay at Scott's until Tuesday morning. Get distracted and absorbed in shore traffic. Pray for the day to end.

I get a call from each child at the end of the school day.  The first day back was great for both kids and I am competely relieved. 

But I am not at all relaxed. 

The cat/bat story was big news around the water cooler at work.  The story is incredulous, and the more distance I get from it, the funnier it becomes. But each person I told asked if I'd kept the bat.

For what? The taxidermist? 

No, for the veterinarian. 

What veterinarian?

The one I will no doubt be calling since there is a very good chance Trinket was bitten by the bat and has been exposed to rabies, natch!

Oh. Hadn't thought about that. And certainly had not thought about carting home the bat carcass in a zip-lock bag. 

I am wracked with guilt when I get home. I examine every inch of Trinket's sleek little feline body and notice a few scabs. And a long scratch.  Oh no.

I pull out her information from her shelter.  She's had lots of shots but I have no idea when they expire.

I take to the web and look up some information.  The rabies shot can prevent the disease for 1-3 years, depending upon the state.  Of course Trinket was adopted in Scott's state, not mine, and there is no information from his particularly uncooperative neck of the woods.  I ask him. He'd know, right? He has five dogs and a cat! He thinks it is good for three years.

He also thinks I am neurotic enough to be a wreck until I find out for sure and that I should call my vet to learn what I need to know in order to sleep at night.

I look up the nice veterinarian that treated Trinket when she injured her tail (I have no idea to this day how that happened.)  I tell the story, omitting the funnier parts and the part about the gun. And I lie and say the bat flew away into the night, freed from bondage.  No need to convince them that I am a bad pet owner AND a moron in the same phone call.

The person on the phone is very nice.  But seems a little more concerned than I'd like.

"Can you be here in twenty minutes?"

Uh-oh.