Monty the Mouth
I came back after today's marathon session at the shop to no sign of the cat. Monty (not his real name) adopted us shortly after the death of the second of our two cats (of old-ish age). Previous posts about Monty can be read from here.
Monty is the neighbourhood stray, belonging to everyone and no-one. He has a lot of street smart about him and a strong streak of independence. He's capable of being incredibly cute, but also an intense irritant because his perception of the balance of power in the relationship is so at odds with mine (it's a cat thing).
A little after us he came in, moving with difficulty, obviously very uncomfortable and very unhappy. My first thought was that he'd gotten into a fight as male cats will. He clearly wanted to be upstairs but was struggling to climb them so I helped him and when he sprawled on the bathroom floor I could finally see that he'd been injured but not, I thought, in a fight. The fronts of both his front legs had gashes in them as did his left flank. To my untutored eye they looked like cuts of some kind.
A trip to the vet was clearly called for. Fortunately there's one a few minutes walk from us so I sent the Fat Bastard to check they were open. He came back with a cat carrier into which we bundled Monty to get him there. The vet took a look at him and confirmed that the injuries were not the result of a fight but rather getting tangled in wire or even, possibly hurling himself through glass in fright.
The vet though (and this is a branch of a chain) isn't equipped to deal with injuries. It doesn't even have anaesthesia facilities. With B in floods of tears and the Fat Bastard not quite sure what he should be doing about anything I went next door and got a friend Tony to drive me and the cat to the nearest emergency vet. I'm now £300.00 poorer. The cat might have been hit by a car so needed to be x-rayed as well as knocked out so that the wounds could all be stitched and sutured. He's there overnight on a drip to get fluids into him and then there'll be antibiotics. Expensive little fucker - and he isn't even my cat.
Monty is the neighbourhood stray, belonging to everyone and no-one. He has a lot of street smart about him and a strong streak of independence. He's capable of being incredibly cute, but also an intense irritant because his perception of the balance of power in the relationship is so at odds with mine (it's a cat thing).
A little after us he came in, moving with difficulty, obviously very uncomfortable and very unhappy. My first thought was that he'd gotten into a fight as male cats will. He clearly wanted to be upstairs but was struggling to climb them so I helped him and when he sprawled on the bathroom floor I could finally see that he'd been injured but not, I thought, in a fight. The fronts of both his front legs had gashes in them as did his left flank. To my untutored eye they looked like cuts of some kind.
A trip to the vet was clearly called for. Fortunately there's one a few minutes walk from us so I sent the Fat Bastard to check they were open. He came back with a cat carrier into which we bundled Monty to get him there. The vet took a look at him and confirmed that the injuries were not the result of a fight but rather getting tangled in wire or even, possibly hurling himself through glass in fright.
The vet though (and this is a branch of a chain) isn't equipped to deal with injuries. It doesn't even have anaesthesia facilities. With B in floods of tears and the Fat Bastard not quite sure what he should be doing about anything I went next door and got a friend Tony to drive me and the cat to the nearest emergency vet. I'm now £300.00 poorer. The cat might have been hit by a car so needed to be x-rayed as well as knocked out so that the wounds could all be stitched and sutured. He's there overnight on a drip to get fluids into him and then there'll be antibiotics. Expensive little fucker - and he isn't even my cat.
posted by Enyo @ 12:40 am
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