Toting his credit card, again, I took my husband's cat to the vet this morning. This would be Achilles, who we lovingly refer to as "little shit", located somewhere on the sidebar to your left.
The Shit is an obnoxious cat, full of personality. He launches himself into our arms. Or onto our unsuspecting backs. He jumps on the counter, regardless of how many times I've chased him off, sprayed him, swatted him, scruffed him. One side of the sink has to stay blocked because he's discovered the magic of the garbage disposal. He leads you into the bathroom. He harasses our quiet, shy cat incessantly. He's run off with cinnamon rolls en route to our mouths, with icecream sandwiches, with meat intended for others.
But for the last few days or so, he has done none of this. He's slept. He's slowly eaten. He's taken treats, but not with his normal finger-tip-devouring enthusiasm. I explained to my husband that by the time you realized that cats were sick, they were normally on death's door. So I made an appointment.
|No drugs at this point, just a naturally tripping cat.|
|I think this antisocialism was the result of illness and insult.|
|Being poked and prodded warranted a snack.. also so I could shove pills down him afterwards.|