Yesterday, Husbandrinka and I celebrated 12 years of happiness. He doesn’t read my blog, so I don’t have to do a tribute to him on here, but I think we can all agree that he is some kind of a saint for putting up with me.
So instead of heaping praise on him, I watched Nicki vomit throughout the day. She’d scream a little, then vomit, then sit under my bed like she knows that I know that cats on their deathbeds do. Husbandrinka does not react well to vomit, feline or otherwise, so he was no help. Well, he did say “this is going to cost us a fortune, isn’t it?” which turned out to be mildly prophetic.
Finally, at around 5, I took Nicki to a 24/7 animal hospital in our neighborhood. They triaged her, telling me that her gums were pink and healthy, so fortunately we can cross periodontal concerns off our list of things to worry about. Then they outlined a treatment plan, which included blood work and an xray and if necessary an ultrasound and exploratory surgery. They didn’t specifically mention gene splicing, but I had a hunch that it would be offered if the need arose.
After a long visit, which I broke up by going out to dinner with Husbandrinka and toasting Nicki’s health with some beverages, I went to pick her up.
Diagnosis: Vomit. Bloodwork: Pristine. Xray: No kitchen utensils visible. Diet: Restricted. Bill: Yes.