Yesterday was a dumb day.
I was all set to go to The Nester's, as she was having a swap meet. A bunch of us were gonna take some household items we didn't want and, you know, swap them with each other. I had read the blog of every person who was gonna be there, and I was so excited to meet everyone. Plus also too, I saw that everyone clearly had better taste than me, so I knew I was going to score on the whole "swap" part.
And yes, I realize I had two social events that directly related to my blog this weekend, and that my real life and my Internet life have become one and the same. What can I tell you? June has become a real person. It's like when Charlie Brown becomes a Macy's float or something.
So, yesterday morning I was getting ready for the swappin', and I went to the laundry room to get my cute, I-am-meeting-fellow-bloggers outfit. I was going to wear a keyboard. BAHAHAHAHA.
Really, I had this whole capri pants/brown shirt combo that was not only cutey cutenstein, it also hid the 15 pounds I have gained back. Oh! I was all set.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, I happened to see Francis in the middle of his litterbox use, and I do not want to go into great detail, but it became evident that something was very.very. wrong with Fran and he needed immediate medical intervention.
It wasn't pretty.
And you know what else isn't pretty? Getting that INSANE animal into a crate and/or taking him to the vet. Francis is feral, which means he was a wild, untamed cat when we got him. And I do not mean this in a romantic, Dennis Hopper, born-to-be-wild kind of a way. I mean this in a Francis-can-kill-you-if-he-wants-to kind of a way.
To visualize getting Fran into a crate? Imagine trying to lift a cannonball. An angry, heavy cannonball that has twenty razor-sharp knives sticking out of it. Twenty razor-sharp knives that thrash about uncontrollably. Imagine the cannonball also has fangs. That are headed for your jugular.
When I told Marvin what was wrong with Francis–who by the way was banned. BANNED. from our vet in LA–Marvin tried to talk me out of seeking medical help. Our cat was BLEEDING from his ORIFICLES and Marvin loves this cat, yet this is how awful it is to try to get this cat to do anything he does not wish to do.
"You know, he's pretty old," Marvin began. "And all he does is sit in that chair."
"DON'T GIVE ME ANY QUALITY OF LIFE ARGUMENTS!" I sobbed at Marvin. "GO GET A CAT CARRIER AND PUT ON YOUR SKI JACKET!"
Because don't think we don't need ski jackets. And gloves. And hockey masks. To get that cat in a crate. Because we do.
Of course, Fran had caught on at this point, and had waddled desperately to the closet, which was perfect. Marvin, in a suit of armor, went into the closet with the cat carrier, and here is what I heard.
"MrrrrrOWOWOWOWOWOW! Hssssssssssssssssss! RRRRRRooooWWWWWrrrrr! MAAAAARRR!"
"MAAARRWWWWWWWWWW! Hsssssssssssssssss." bang! bang! crash! "Hsssss!"
Marvin emerged, scarred but victorious.
We had a few minutes to spare, so we put poor Cannonball Run on the table for safekeeping. Naturally, Captured Fran was fascinating to everyone else.
Winston had to lord his alpha cat status over the poor caged beast. Note my laundry on the left. Remember last week? When I cleaned off this table? And there it is again, messy. It's not so much a dining room table as it is an everything surface. Including, apparently, captured berserk animals who are bleeding out their bung holes.
Henry watched, too. He is sitting in front of the box o' stuff I was gonna swap. The stuff that went right back up to the attic yesterday. Unswapped. Henry is also sitting on Richard Carpenter's face, and I'd like to make the obvious joke here, but can Richard Carpenter sue people for what they say in their blogs?
I don't even need to tell you why we have a notebook with Richard Carpenter on it. I mean, you find one in every household.
Anyway, two hours, $150, and a Hannibal Lecter blanket and mask later (no, really. They blanketed and masked this creature to do the tests), they found out that Francis has an irritated colon, they think. He has a pain in the butt, and it's not even Tallulah, for once.
So, Francis got a $52 shot and I have to check his waste for the next few days. Yes. His waste. Waste not, want not, I always say.
If it doesn't clear up he has to have a colonoscopy.
I hope that vet has good life insurance.