Gracie Update

Poor Gracie-Cat. She dozed in a fat curl on the love seat this morning while I tortured myself doing an exercise video of almost purely squats. Brian even approached her, and she didn't open her eyes at all, although she was undoubtedly aware of his presence. She always knows when he is in the room. Seeing this, I was glad she would be going to the vet.

After my shower, I retrieved the plastic cat carrier from the attic. Upon glancing inside, I saw handfuls of cat fur from my neurotic kitten's last trip to the vet seven years ago. Luckily, Gracie's memories don't seem to include this particular item. She sniffed at it when I placed it beside her, and I was able to basically pour her into it without any trouble at all. I snapped the door shut and loaded her into the back of my Jeep. She read me the riot act the entire way to the vet, and I cranked up the stereo to nearly full blast as we headed down the parkway to muffle her yowling. Surprisingly, Steven Tyler and Gracie sound remarkably similar.

The animal hospital here is a small building nestled up against a car dealership one block off the main drag. Inside the front door was a window in which a young girl wearing medical scrubs sat looking pathologically bored. On either side of this window were waiting rooms lined with padded, brown, vinyl benches and racks of expensive pet food. The place hasn't been updated probably since 1970, and it felt dark and creepy inside. The wood paneling definitely didn't help. It reminded me of a cross between a ski lodge and a porn set. After I checked in, I chose the deserted waiting area to my right. The magazine rack held one worn copy of Working Mother. Gripping. I talked to Gracie's eyes, which were visible now, yellow and wide, behind the plastic cage of her pet carrier. Something about this place made me wish I had a gallon of hand sanitizer, although I did note that air fresheners have come a long way in seven years. The smell of sick, frightened animals was much less noticeable. A technician opened a door, interrupting my thoughts, and announced Gracie's name. I stood and hoisted the plastic box, hoping the cheap, aging handle would hold. We walked down a dingy hall into an examining room with a window overlooking the car lot.

The technician asked me to get Gracie out of her box, and I dragged her out by the scruff with no resistance whatsoever. I felt just dead cat weight. She sank and widened into a large black and white puddle on the examining table. I was instantly covered in her fur, and as her feline follicles released handfuls of her coat before my eyes, the air became saturated with floating fuzz. I was asked to hold her scruff while a stiff plastic spike on the end of a thermometer was inserted into her backside. Gracie stared blankly ahead, any fight in her long evaporated. The technician withdrew the spike and wiped it off with a paper towel. She asked me to deposit Gracie on the scale. It read: 15.15 lb. Holy Friskies, Batman.

The technician left us, and I leafed through an issue of Cat Fancy. I was immediately entranced by the velvety faces of strange looking, beautiful animals that likely cost as much as my vehicle sitting in the parking lot. As I flipped the page, I spotted a photo of a cat sporting a jaunty, red bandana triangle around its neck. My eyes rolled in an involuntary gesture as the door opened to reveal the doc. She was a very athletic blond with no visible trace of makeup. Her body looked angular and sharp underneath a white lab coat. I explained Gracie's skin problems and bowel disorder. She listened closely as she palpated the marshmallowy contours of my cat for swollen organs. Gracie was then taken into the back room for a blood draw and emerged with a completely shaved bottom. She was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome and a very matted backside. We were given Flagyl, a drug most commonly used in humans who believe drinking the water out of a mountain stream or eating the ice out of their margarita in Mazatlan is a wise idea. It was packed into five plastic syringes and looked like peanut butter. I was instructed to store it in my fridge and shoot one dose down Gracie's throat once a day. I was given a small bag of low-residue cat food and challenged to feed her a mere three-quarters of a cup a day. We'll see how that goes.

Gracie seemed to feel hugely better when we arrived home. She found a spot in the sun next to my desk and was lying beached on her back looking like a dead but happy penguin when the vet called to report her blood work was normal. I think Gracie is good for another 10 years, although we may have to subject her to a vigorous booty shaving here and there.

Side Note: As for the comments I received regarding my last post, I was tickled to hear so many great cat stories. Thank you for brightening my day. I think the prize for the scariest cat, however, goes to Kim's cat Harold. By a landslide. An appropriate prize in this case may be some Bactine and some gauze bandages. Just a thought.