Our boy is at the vet's office right now, undergoing treatment for failing kidneys. His doctor, the Best Vet Ever (no joke, she is amazing), thinks that he could have a kidney infection....or it might be something worse.
Jimmy had seemed to be his usual self lately, but was sick to his stomach more often than hairball-normal on Saturday. Hmm. Then on Sunday, he had some incontinence issues and was not eating or drinking much. Okay, something's wrong. I spent a good portion of the evening trying to cajole him into at least drinking some water. Let's be honest: at 11:30 I was on the floor with him, trying to give him fluid with a baby medicine dropper.
Yesterday was one of those Goodfellas days where I ran from place to place at warp speed, hearing Harry Nilsson in my head, jumpy and looking over my shoulder for helicopters. Check on sick cat. Email boss. Get kidlet ready for school. Call vet. Kidlet on bus. Sick and crying cat to vet. Me to work. Phone calls to vet, husband, vet, husband, boss. Pick up better? cat. Pick up kidlet just before afterschool late pickup. Home. Give urine-covered cat a bath. Feed kidlet. Cajole (damp, but no longer dripping) cat into eating and drinking. And so on....
The diagnosis yesterday had been a UTI. After subcutaneous fluid and antibiotic and vitamin B shots, he really had perked up a bit. We came home with a 10 day supply of another antibiotic (pills, yikes) and with instructions for me to make sure he eats, otherwise they would recommend syringe feeding. Although his bloodwork was back and showed elevated white cells and leukocytes (duh), the more comprehensive stuff for liver and kidney and pancreatic function would not be in until today.
This morning, he was happy and purring, eating, drinking his water, interacting with Pepper.
Then I got a phone call.
I was driving. Of COURSE.
The Best Vet Ever proceeds to tell me that my improving! cat is critically ill. That the improvements are temporary, and that he needs IV fluids and antibiotics. NOW.
So I change directions, head back. More phone calls. When I come to pick him up, Jimmy doesn't resist. He knows he's sick. He knows where I'm taking him.
As I drive to the vet, I try not to think about Frances.
When I talked to my friend/boss Shaman today, he told me that I need to "go in there hopeful, Lor, but you need to try to prepare yourself for the worst." To a degree, he's right. When we determined that Frances could not be cured, that her quality of life would never be the same, I was blindsided.
I feel guilty, because this kitty was sick for some time before we saw the distress signals. One of the vets pointed out that, "if it were you or me, and we were this sick, we would have seen a doctor ten days ago." She wasn't being judgy; she followed it up with the observation that animals, particularly cats, are biologically programmed to conceal their weaknesses.
Okay. So some perspective.
He is young, and strong. Short of the hairball horking, he doesn't get sick. This could be a very very bad infection, and the right care could do the trick. He's in the right place to get the right care.
And if it's something worse? Well, he got to come home last night, where he was loved and fussed over and he and I curled up together on the couch and snoozed.
Good thoughts, please...