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Wretched Beast.
Apr. 23rd, 2006 01:00 amI went this afternoon to visit the stunningly ungrateful black and white furball I call Tekiah. And yes, the receptionist called downstairs to let them know "Tequila" had company.
She was reclining in her steel cage, adorned with a blue Elizabethan collar that truly enhanced the "I will kill you in your sleep" image any post-surgery cat expresses so well. She seemed to accept earrubs as her due, but since she didn't accompany them with her usual subsonic rumbles of murderous discontent, I know she's not feeling well, still. She's shaved from her chest all the way down her belly, and a pain patch required a large part of her flank to be shaved, as well. Oh, and her leg, where the IV is taped. So all in all, I can see where she'd be a less than happy cat. Still, I seem to think there was a certain gleam in her eye when she saw me: perhaps just the relief of seeing someone familiar, perhaps the joy of finding someone with opposable thumbs who knows just where that perfect ear-rub spot is. Perhaps simply the hope she might be released from this inexplicable torture.
I put a little food on my fingertip, and she seemed vaguely interested; likewise with water, as I know most post-surgery folks get more thirsty than anything else. But she didn't actually consume anything-- just glared at me. The vet techs gushed about how she was absolutely the sweetest cat they had in there. As I did yesterday, I replied, "That's not my cat."![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
foxglove_8778, who was standing behind me, snorted in agreement. "If she hasn't tried to take off your am, she's still not feeling well." They also handed me a small Ziploc and, as I'd suspected, it was filled with, I'd say, about a yard of Jackie O's green organdy ribbon. (I shall have to reassure caitriona27 that I'll use fresh ribbons when I relace the corset.) I chatted with the two techs for a bit about corsets (I got the usual, "You make what?") and went to make my goodbyes to my little raison d'etre. She showed her true opinion of the situation by stiffly picking herself up, turning her back on me, and sticking her collar up against the back wall of the cage, thereby completely shutting us all out. "If you're not going to get me out of here," she sniffed, "I have absolutely no use for you. As usual." But she's still not eating-- not even the wholly-disgusting-smelling soft food they slapped down in front of her, so I know she's not ready to come home quite yet. I'll probably pick her up after work on Monday, and return her to her seat of glory here at the apartment.
Where, I'm sure, she'll continue to claim she hates me for years to come.
She was reclining in her steel cage, adorned with a blue Elizabethan collar that truly enhanced the "I will kill you in your sleep" image any post-surgery cat expresses so well. She seemed to accept earrubs as her due, but since she didn't accompany them with her usual subsonic rumbles of murderous discontent, I know she's not feeling well, still. She's shaved from her chest all the way down her belly, and a pain patch required a large part of her flank to be shaved, as well. Oh, and her leg, where the IV is taped. So all in all, I can see where she'd be a less than happy cat. Still, I seem to think there was a certain gleam in her eye when she saw me: perhaps just the relief of seeing someone familiar, perhaps the joy of finding someone with opposable thumbs who knows just where that perfect ear-rub spot is. Perhaps simply the hope she might be released from this inexplicable torture.
I put a little food on my fingertip, and she seemed vaguely interested; likewise with water, as I know most post-surgery folks get more thirsty than anything else. But she didn't actually consume anything-- just glared at me. The vet techs gushed about how she was absolutely the sweetest cat they had in there. As I did yesterday, I replied, "That's not my cat."
foxglove_8778, who was standing behind me, snorted in agreement. "If she hasn't tried to take off your am, she's still not feeling well." They also handed me a small Ziploc and, as I'd suspected, it was filled with, I'd say, about a yard of Jackie O's green organdy ribbon. (I shall have to reassure caitriona27 that I'll use fresh ribbons when I relace the corset.) I chatted with the two techs for a bit about corsets (I got the usual, "You make what?") and went to make my goodbyes to my little raison d'etre. She showed her true opinion of the situation by stiffly picking herself up, turning her back on me, and sticking her collar up against the back wall of the cage, thereby completely shutting us all out. "If you're not going to get me out of here," she sniffed, "I have absolutely no use for you. As usual." But she's still not eating-- not even the wholly-disgusting-smelling soft food they slapped down in front of her, so I know she's not ready to come home quite yet. I'll probably pick her up after work on Monday, and return her to her seat of glory here at the apartment.Where, I'm sure, she'll continue to claim she hates me for years to come.