Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

I rally the next morning.  I can do this. I feed the cat. I check how much water she's consumed since last night. I fill the glasses she drinks from (don't ask) and check her kitty litter for signs of trouble. All clear.

But on Wednesday morning, I have some bathroom woes of my own that are most unpleasant. And by that evening I have a whopping headache. By Thursday, I have a fever. (Fever, hot flash. It's hard to tell the difference. It all feels like my insides are being microwaved.)

Like all reasonable people, I consult my secretary.  She'll know what to do. She tells me not to be a moron and to call my doctor.  I wait to see if the fever breaks before I call. And all the while I Google.

If these are rabies symptoms, I'd better update my will. My goose is as good as cooked.  My brain will be scrambled with a side of home fries and a steaming cup of Crazy.
If I think I've been exposed to rabies, I can begin the shots prophylactically.  And it is not 21 shots to the belly in 21 days .  It is four shots over a number of weeks. In the arm. And reportedly painless. (Good to know.)
I can not get rabies from blood, urine, poop or any of the other known bodily fluids except for saliva. So lookout if she's cleaned herself and be careful with the biting, and use gloves to wash the food and water bowls (how about bleach and long handled mop?)

I dial the doc. I ask to leave a message when I am told she's in with a patient. I leave her a few bullet points about my worries (which could go on and on for several dozen bullets but I'll save that for the return phone call.)

I take it as a good sign that she does not call back right away. If I had anything to worry about she'd race up the stairs to drag me to the office by the hair on my infected head, right?

But she does eventually call. I am walking to my car at the time, and in fact in a crowded elevator car.  She asks me to tell the story from beginning to end. Recommends a tetanus shot if I think it would make be relaxa about it. I do not.

Over the next few days, I am reasonably convinced that Trinket is just fine.  Appetite is good. Water consumption normal. No vomiting. Nothign outlandish in the kitty litter box.   Still sweet and affectionate. I am feeling pretty good. And pretty relieved.

The kids arrive from Lars' that afternoon. It is hard for them not to touch Trinket and Hil is very creative about giving her treats without touching her. She'd be a great friend to The Boy in the Bubble.  And she feels sorry for Trinket.  She is alarmed at the way her scratches look.  She hasn't seen her since the bat incident. I've had some time to adjust to her looking like a leper. I tell her not to worry, I am pretty sure she's just fine. But Hil can not stop fretting.

I get home at the usual time and am greeted by the kids but not the cat as is customary. I ask where she is and Hil points to the window sill.  Trinket turns to look at me.

Cujo.