Gremmy on a Hot Tin Roof

As I was driving home today, I was mentally composing the blog I would post about my crappy day at work, cuz who wouldn’t want to hear my tedious whining? The petty irritations of my mundane life make for riveting reading. Right?

So there I was on the way home, hungry and tired and worried because I’d seen a flea in the morning. (You know, after yesterday’s flea bomb and flea powder and flea dip at the vet.)

Gobby was in the window waiting for me, as usual, though Gremmy wasn’t with her. That’s not atypical. Goblin is the window slut, not Gremlin.

The weirdness started when I walked in the door. Goblin greeted me but Gremlin didn’t. That’s not normal, not at all. Gremlin always comes over to say hi to me. Or to anyone. She’d say hi to a serial killer.

I found Gremlin lying in bed in exactly the same spot I’d left her that morning. Her posture seemed peculiar. Don’t ask how I could sense odd posture from a cat lying down. Feline mother instinct, or something. Then I picked her up.

What’s wrong with this situation?

Read that last line again. I picked her up. You can’t pick up Gremlin. She doesn’t tolerate it. That’s my only criticism of the girls– you can’t pick them up. They’ve very affectionate and they love to cuddle and hop in my lap or sit on my feet– but always, always on their own terms. I can’t pick up either one.

When I picked up Gremlin and she didn’t even meow, I knew something was very, very wrong. I walked her over to the food dish and water bowl. No dice.

She tried walking to the litter box. For a second there I was worried she’d broken something– she was moving gingerly, and seemed to be favoring one leg.

When she got to the litter box she tried to get in but couldn’t manage to climb in.

At this point I called the vet. I got the recorded message telling me to contact Greenbiar clinic in Chesapeake.

Do you know how far away Chesapeake is? Over an hour. I didn’t even know where Chesapeake was. Somewhere to the east, but I hadn’t the foggiest how to get there.

So I called the Chesapeake vet. After I described the symptoms, the nice lady on the phone told me to bring her in then, not to wait till tomorrow.

By this point I was nearing hysteria. My little girl was so sick she could barely move, and it was urgent, and the nearest goddam vet was over an hour away in a city of indeterminate whereabouts.

I’ll spare you all the details. Careful readers will recall that Gremlin hates car rides, but– get this– she was so sick she barely protested the whole hour and forty minute car ride. (Why did it take so long? Because I got lost, naturally. I got to explore part of Virginia Fucking Beach, though.)

Then we waited, and then we waited some more. Long story short: Gremlin is reacting poorly to yesterday’s flea dip and/or rabies vac and/or bordatella shot.

Also, her neck is sore. The nice vet this evening speculated that she was handled roughly yesterday. Now it’s no secret that Gremmy-Lou is a she-devil when you try to give her a bath (remember, she won’t even let you pick her up), but was it really necessary to throttle my little baby?

They gave her a bath to counter the effects of yesterday’s flea dip and sent her home with some medicine.

My poor little girl. Car rides, neck-choking, baths, medicine, and general malaise and tenderness. Hasn’t eaten in who knows how long. Hasn’t had anything to drink, either, though this evening’s vet gave her a shot of something to hydrate her.

And poor little me. I didn’t get to eat dinner till 11, I am really fucking broke, and we still have fleas. All that shit yesterday didn’t do the trick. I saw one this morning and Goblin’s still itching. Gremlin probably would be too, if it didn’t hurt her to move.

If this were any other time, I would seriously entertain the idea of calling in sick tomorrow, but I’ve got too much work to do. I told my boss I’d be in a few hours late, though– that will let me sleep in a little. (Naturally, I’ll stay late to make up the hours.)

But on the very, very bright side, Gremlin is alive.


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