Sunday, 27 April 2014

Cat vs Traffic

Sun is setting, roast potatoes (and in my case, a post Sunday dinner "snack" of double cheeseburger, shit ton of Pringles and a dayglo orange smoothie) are settling, and Monday is slowly creeping over the horizon like an unsavory neighbour... Another week is done and dusted.  And I have pretty much naff all to report. Nothing exciting has happened to me whatsoever.  Zilch.  Sorry, guys!

But I'll tell you who has had an eventful one.  My cat.  Walter decided that his life needed shaking up a little.  He needed a bit of excitement because his owners have done nothing but stare vacantly into the glowy box in the corner of the living room all week.  So he went to get himself some of that adrenaline he'd heard so much about (on Rude Tube, probably) going out and picking a fight with a car.

Nope, that wasn't a typo for "cat". It was an actual car. Friday night, he returned from one of his jaunts (run up tree, run down tree, stare at neighbour cat, hide in shed, come out of shed, meow at door til let back in), spouting blood from every facial orifice and wearing a distinct "you weren't there, man!" expression with his one open eye.  He was barely moving and appeared to be in shock.  Also,  I've learned this weekend that blood on a white animal is much more alarming than any on one of a darker colour.  Seeing him like that was freaking terrifying! Like he'd covered himself in ketchup for the crack of it, just to distract us from the tv. Asshole.

Anyhow, the vet wasn't due to open til the next morning, and he appeared to be more shaken up than actually broken, so we couldn't do anything bar go to bed and wait and see what Saturday morning brought us. 

Because my family's cat thinks he's a Rottweiler and often comes home with chunks of ear and face missing all, "no biggie, you should see the other guy!", I wasn't too worried - assumed he'd just done a few rounds with that angry looking, chunky, vaguely cat shaped black beast that sits in our garden like he owns it (suspect is head of Birchgrove Kitty Mafia - I wouldn't mess with him, and I'm a fully grown human) and lost, for he is a fluffy lump who may or may not be made of marshmallows (and apparently ketchup).

A, however, hasn't shared a house with a cat since he was a kid and was much more concerned.  So concerned, in fact, that he allowed Princess Walter to sleep on his side of the bed.  How sweet.  At least that's what I thought until I woke up at 3am, hanging by my fingernails to the end of that bed because naturally, A now needed somewhere to sleep himself. Which was my side of the bed.  Needless to say, I was hardly guffing happiness and light the next morning.

Walter was still a snoozing bag of self pity and scabs, so away to the vet he went.  Vet diagnosed his condition as "car to the face"as opposed to kitty mafia related trauma as I'd suspected (he was also diagnosed with slight constipation - way to kick a cat while he's down) and sent him packing with a big old needleful of antibiotics.   Walt was listless and refused to eat for most of the day.  Only then did I start to panic.  Obviously, any person or pet is fine if they are missing a limb, bleeding from every available hole or talking in tongues...but NOT EATING?! That can only be a symptom of something fatal.

Long story short, several hours later, our battered hero emerged from an all-day slumber, had a MASSIVE..uhh...toilet break...and ate everything in site including my left leg and A's face and all of the furniture, so all is well again.  All that's left on Walter now is a pretty badass black eye, some scabs and a bubble of air atop his head (vet diagnosis: probably normal, but nevertheless yucky) that makes a disgusting noise like someone being slapped in the face with several fish every time he shakes his head.  That's it.

Moral of this week's story?  If you ever get hit by a car, just nap it off, do a poo and have a large sandwich.  You'll be back to waiting by the fridge for ham snacks and getting in the way of any and all productive household activity in no time.

"Chicks dig scabs"

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