They overloaded him with fluids. He's in heart failure and on what I guess are kitty pressors, as he isn't maintaining a blood pressure. He is less responsive.
The vet is worried that he'll die during "transport." "Transport" consists of Fred driving Little Boy to an emergency clinic equipped for intensive care over the remainder of the weekend. Of course, he'll be driving Ruby, the Honda CRV, which is loaded with veterinary doodads. (Our airbags are lined with catnip.)
I wish to goodness she had not said that. Fred went three shades of pale. Then refused to let me come along to nurse the little guy so that he can concentrate on driving. If UKBB crashes while he's driving, you know the man is going to pull over, wasting precious time doing silly things like CPR (he's done it before -- while driving -- I was there!). Were I there, I could do compressions and coo at the cat while he floors it.
"It's too much for you."
Ah, yes, another reason I am aching for a cure... So that I will be ALLOWED to ride in the car.
"It's too much for you. Harrumph." If he were not so freaking upset? Upside the head. WHOMP.
I know that they are following a strict protocol, and we all know my deep respect for protocol, but isn't it past time to bring that blood sugar down? Wouldn't he respond better if it were somewhere... like... oh, I dunno, BELOW 700?
I think I am upset. It sure sounds like we have worked really hard to KILL OUR CAT. We rushed him to a vet who drowned him in fluid, is anxious to transfer him already, and has yet to treat his hyperglycemia.
I need a scapegoat.
Oh, and speaking of which... congratulations to Harrison Barnes and those ne'er-do-wells he hangs with.
Down 10 at the half, he carried UNC to a 92-87 rally. Virginia Tech has to be running on pure adrenaline, which means they're still dangerous, but I can't see Duke losing this one. Especially if I don't go anywhere near the television or radio. And I won't even peek at the results online, I swear.
9 PM Okay. We just bothered the "emergency" vets as we wanted an update on Uncle Kitty Big Balls. This ICU weekend setup disappears like Cinderella's coach and glass slippers at 9 am Monday, when the FredMobile will transfer him back to our regular vet's digs. This is quite the operation.
The little dude is on dopamine, for Christ's sake! And oxygen. But at least the insulin drip is FINALLY going, though the vet said they were going to titrate very, very slowly. His blood sugar has dropped the requisite tiny amount, so all is proceeding as expected. He may be a little more alert, but maybe not. What is certain in this guy's mind is that he is not worse. [Talk about two divergent "report" styles. Our regular vet was kvetching about how perhaps the 200 ml bolus was too big a bolus... Like I would have a clue. She's in love with detail and sparkly factoids. Ask her, "How is my cat doing?" and you will receive a monotonal recitation of his last lab results, complete with an announcement of each value's normal range. The emergency vet, on the other hand, was all about how the cat seemed to be feeling, even if that topic is an impossible one. "He seems a little more perky. But maybe not. He's not LESS perky. So that's good." Note: It's the second vet who is surrounded by shiny, expensive, science-y schtuff. The first vet is housed, basically, in a barely renovated old bungalow. Their exam tables have wood trim.]
Well, he's hanging in there. Fred and I talked finances and decided he's probably the best investment we've got going, so no issues there -- no issues insofar as making the decision. Actually PAYING THE BILL? That's gonna be hard. But somehow, deciding now, above board, openly, even if our faces involuntarily contort into gargoylesque cubist angles as we do so, takes a bit of the financial sting away.
We can always sell Dobby to the circus. Rent Marmy out to the Cistercians -- they have quite the crowd in the Alzheimer Ward of the Monastery Infirmery and have found that feline visitation calms and soothes. As soon as La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore drags herself home from her third Faust performance of the day, and as soon as we curry her favor with a spiced mug of tea, with lemon? We're gonna hit her up for a fundraising performance of Gounod's bubblegum masterpiece. Whaddaya think? Will she do it?
We were thinking maybe they could dedicate the take from a couple of matinees...
I have some items that I was planning to sell at some future yard sale -- a big old hammock and stand, various exercise equipment, an old scooter, some small electronics I never use...
We have a car to sell, as well...
What is easy to do but requires more of an iron will -- our standard austerity measures will need to be kicked up a notch. More soups that stretch three servings into six. Brewed teas instead of colas. Meat and fish as flavor accents instead of the main ingredient. French roast instead of Italian.
For Fred, the issue might be juices and colas -- the man is a juice freak.
For me, well, also colas (of the diet variety), but mostly -- YOGURT! It's a legitimate "need," in that the antibiotic regimen demands some concessions, but I do consume more than is strictly necessary and insist on a certain brand, etcetera. I guess you could say I've been milking the situation.
ba dum tsh. [That's my ironic verbal rimshot. Pretty pitiful...]
And so I give you the rimshot, or the sting, in proper notation:
I am -- just between us, you got it? -- having tightness in the chestal area. Though my heart can develop severe funkitude, that's not what is happening. It's infinitely more likely that I have a prosaic acid stomach. There's nothing like stress and no sleep to prepare a soul for a week of medical nonsense. So my plan, now that I've fed the gang a healthy (if cardboardy) dinner and cleaned the rugs, I'm gonna wash up my own self and lie down.
Maybe take a hit of insulin in solidarity with Uncle Kitty Big Balls, our best Little Boy.
Maybe grab a Dobby and do some preventive Intestinal Massage.
Then, when The Castafiore comes a-stumblin' over the drawbridge, I will be ready to wheedle a fundraiser out of the girl! I make a mean flyer and we have some credit remaining at Blinko's from last summer's Manor Fest.
Should you care to contribute to the cause, the good Abbot Truffatore is going to serve as Charity Chair. Who better than a monastic priest to safeguard our monetary gifts -- and in-kind donations, don't forget the blessèd in-kind donations! Cistercians, those whacky Trappists! If you'd like to mail in your large check, here's the snail mail address:
The Uncle Kitty Big Balls Medical Fund
c/o Abbot Truffatore
The Club House @ The Monastery
Left at the Lone Alp, Tête de Hergé 98712349
All major credit cards accepted.
Duke beat Va Tech, as predicted and faces off with Carolina tomorrow. Good night.