Scott, you'd better come get YOUR cat.

I'm really getting to the end of my rope with this cat. Puffy, I mean.

If you recall, I was having some problems with her going outside the box a couple of weeks ago. I took her to the vet who asked that we gather a urine sample for her.

The next morning when I fed them, I sequestered Puffy in the empty bedroom (the one designated for my child who will neatly pee and poop in a diaper) with a clean litter box sprinkled with the special litter bits the vet game me. She immediately piddled, and I woke Scott up to collect them. At that point, the very thought of cat urine made me barf.

Scott dropped the piddle off at the vet's office on his way to work, and she called me a couple hours later. Obviously, there were some crystals in her pee that are associated with either a metabolism problem that cat's may get at anytime in life or possibly a kidney problem. She prescribed a chewable pill and had us take another sample collection cup so that she could see if the meds made a difference after a few days.

When we took the new pee sample back in - lo and behold - the crystals were gone. I had been shoving Puffy through the kitty door into the laundry room to make sure she pissed and crapped where she was supposed to JUST IN CASE. She'd already shit (shat? shut? shitted?) in a sickly palm plant I've had since college and in the recycling bin.

The vet told us to finish out the last few pills, which lasted until Monday, I think, and watch her for the rest of the week. She'd been doing great - other than sneezing the hugest snot wad all over herself and our bed last night prompting me to wash the comforther AGAIN - she's been on her p's and q's.

This morning I woke up thinking about some Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, and fed the cats before going out to get the paper. I thought to myself as I poured the kibble, "Why does it smell so sour in here? We had pizza last night...it's not like there's any raw chicken parts in the trash."

So, I fed the furry heathens, washed my hands, and was about to move my favorite tote bag, my jumbo WUNC radio one that'll cost me $500 in pledge support by the end of the year. I love that fucking bag. Loved rather.

It had been the bag I take to work to tote my purse, lunch, paperwork, knitting, trashy magazines, etc. I had it hanging on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Well, last night, a certain cat - most likely the one that does NOT weigh 20 pounds because that would have knocked the whole damn contraption (chair + cat +piss bag) to the floor - climbed into it and took a piss of monumental volume.

I was so so mad that I was seething. It's in the washing machine right now. The bag, not the cat. Hopefully, after 2 or 3 washes I'll still love enough to use it and the canvas won't be bleached out on the bottom.

You know, at first, I felt sorry for her. "Poor kitty, it must hurt so bad for you to pee." Now I'm pissed at her AND the fucking vet who knew that taking her off the pills would cause the problem, WHICH SHE SAID THE CAT WOULD PROBABLY HAVE TO BE MEDICATED FOR FOREVER, to return shortly. "Watch her," she said, as she thought of the $30 we'd have to pay to come in for a SECOND follow-up.

I'M SO PISSED THAT I'M CONTEMPLATING PUTTING THE CAT OUT IN THE GARAGE. I may be ragey and hormonal from being pregnant, but for the love or God - I can't even touch my feet anymore. Like hell if I'm going to follow this cat around the house in search of bathroom indiscretions.

Posted by Tiffany at July 2, 2006 07:44 AM | TrackBack