Alone Again, Unnaturally
Pheen is at the vet's again.
He's been twitchy all weekend. He's quite smart enough to know a pattern, so he knew Monday morning would see him stuffed into a cat carrier for another day of hopeless lonely doom, and he now keeps a wary eye on us on the weekends, in case we make a move early, or make any move at all. It's awful, because *everything* makes him edgy and suspicious. I get out of bed, and he runs and hides behind the bookshelf in the spare room, and he won't come out for love or food. He knows it's a trick.
And the worst part of it all is, he's not wrong. We know that he has to go back to the vet, so the guilt is more cloying and weepy than Buffy with a sinus infection.
This morning, I got up and closed all the doors, and right away, he was scratching at the spare room door and howling, the most mournful heartbreaking sound in the world. It was the same crushed crying he makes when the SU is home late, and Pheen stands at the door, eyes locked on it, unswayable, and weeps frantically to the world that his family is gone, and they need to be home NOW.
I'm told he does the same thing if I go out at all.
Hey, I belong at home.
Maybe he's not complaining. Maybe he's calling us home, convinced we're just a little lost and he can help us make it.
I sat with him upstairs this morning, and sang to him. He stopped crying. He likes it when I sing. Loves it even. He's the only person who does.
He laid down beside me and tried to headbutt and burrow his way through my thigh, as I petted him and sang. I started with a made up song, and when I choked and ran out of words I moved on to Green Day's 'Novocaine'.
Too soon, I had to take him down to carrier. We got him in okay, we're a very smooth operation on that, but this time, rather than just trying to paw and swipe his way out of the cage, he was trying to bite at the bars. I thought my heart was already well broken, but that...really hurt.
My own sinuses, already strained, exploded.
Last week, his dose was put up to 5, and they said he was close. I'm really hoping that 5 is the winner and they won't put up his dose today. If they do, he has to go back again next week. Of course, he needs the dose he needs, it's just...
It sucks so much.
It's also getting harder, giving him his shot. I don't think it hurts, he's just annoyed at us fussing back there. It's not an approved mode of attention, thank you. He keeps moving before you can get the needle in, and giving us an exasperated look. It's a look of 'rub the ears, pat the head, brush my back, scratch the spot just above my tail, but this grabbing and pinching my shoulders is doing *nothing* for me, you nitwit'. His constant shifting is making it an ordeal. I may have to institute chicken bribes. For Pheen, food makes everything better.
We did not teach him this. He just always believed it. Sure, he loved food, but it was more than that. When he was a kitten, and he was caught doing evil, he'd sprint to the food dish and snarf. His reasoning was clear: he couldn't have been, say, chewing the electrical cords, because he was eating! See? Eating! I'm a good kitty! A good kitty!
When he gets back from the vet's, he dashes for the kitchen, crying. What's in the dish is fine, but no, he wants a special. And hurry up.
Hey, a bad day demands a good treat.
Three hours before he's back home, and at least three days before he forgives me...
My poor buddy.
He's been twitchy all weekend. He's quite smart enough to know a pattern, so he knew Monday morning would see him stuffed into a cat carrier for another day of hopeless lonely doom, and he now keeps a wary eye on us on the weekends, in case we make a move early, or make any move at all. It's awful, because *everything* makes him edgy and suspicious. I get out of bed, and he runs and hides behind the bookshelf in the spare room, and he won't come out for love or food. He knows it's a trick.
And the worst part of it all is, he's not wrong. We know that he has to go back to the vet, so the guilt is more cloying and weepy than Buffy with a sinus infection.
This morning, I got up and closed all the doors, and right away, he was scratching at the spare room door and howling, the most mournful heartbreaking sound in the world. It was the same crushed crying he makes when the SU is home late, and Pheen stands at the door, eyes locked on it, unswayable, and weeps frantically to the world that his family is gone, and they need to be home NOW.
I'm told he does the same thing if I go out at all.
Hey, I belong at home.
Maybe he's not complaining. Maybe he's calling us home, convinced we're just a little lost and he can help us make it.
I sat with him upstairs this morning, and sang to him. He stopped crying. He likes it when I sing. Loves it even. He's the only person who does.
He laid down beside me and tried to headbutt and burrow his way through my thigh, as I petted him and sang. I started with a made up song, and when I choked and ran out of words I moved on to Green Day's 'Novocaine'.
Too soon, I had to take him down to carrier. We got him in okay, we're a very smooth operation on that, but this time, rather than just trying to paw and swipe his way out of the cage, he was trying to bite at the bars. I thought my heart was already well broken, but that...really hurt.
My own sinuses, already strained, exploded.
Last week, his dose was put up to 5, and they said he was close. I'm really hoping that 5 is the winner and they won't put up his dose today. If they do, he has to go back again next week. Of course, he needs the dose he needs, it's just...
It sucks so much.
It's also getting harder, giving him his shot. I don't think it hurts, he's just annoyed at us fussing back there. It's not an approved mode of attention, thank you. He keeps moving before you can get the needle in, and giving us an exasperated look. It's a look of 'rub the ears, pat the head, brush my back, scratch the spot just above my tail, but this grabbing and pinching my shoulders is doing *nothing* for me, you nitwit'. His constant shifting is making it an ordeal. I may have to institute chicken bribes. For Pheen, food makes everything better.
We did not teach him this. He just always believed it. Sure, he loved food, but it was more than that. When he was a kitten, and he was caught doing evil, he'd sprint to the food dish and snarf. His reasoning was clear: he couldn't have been, say, chewing the electrical cords, because he was eating! See? Eating! I'm a good kitty! A good kitty!
When he gets back from the vet's, he dashes for the kitchen, crying. What's in the dish is fine, but no, he wants a special. And hurry up.
Hey, a bad day demands a good treat.
Three hours before he's back home, and at least three days before he forgives me...
My poor buddy.
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