Tough Guy vs. the Vet

In the spectrum of bad experiences, taking a cat to the veterinarian ranks between getting a traffic ticket and getting a root canal, sans anesthesia.

I take full responsibility for what happened to my obese orange tabby Tough Guy. Over the past weekend, he ate some overgrown plants that were poisonous to cats. (I have since cut them back. I plan to get rid of them entirely this weekend.) He vomited twice and had trouble using the litter box. After one try at doing his business, he let out a sustained, painful “MEEEOOOOW!” That was when I decided he had to go to Sunset Animal Clinic in Suisun City.

I went to work yesterday morning, thinking I didn’t have enough money to take Tough Guy until I received a check from my IRA account on Wednesday. When I called the clinic, the receptionist advised that I take the cat in and assured me that the clinic would accept a post-dated check. So, I left shortly after lunch and drove home to pick up Tough Guy.

The sad part was that when I arrived home, Tough Guy appeared to be normal and was purring. I shoved him inside his carrier and left my other cat, Dame Jessye, home alone.

I have no air conditioning in my 1995 Honda Civic. So, Tough Guy would cry and pant like an overheated dog. He also peed in the carrier, which made matters worse.

When I arrived at Sunset Animal Clinic, all the examination rooms were filled, and there were other pets and their humans waiting their turn. One was a German shepherd that was getting his ears taped. Another was a 5-lb., 7-oz. Chihuahua with her burly, tattooed caregiver. A young woman came with a blanket-lined shoebox and a six-week-old black kitten with an eye infection. I believe that animal clinics and hospitals are recession-proof. I thought the clinic needed to expand to accommodate the demand.

Fifteen minutes after our arrival, an animal technician took Tough Guy and the carrier into a back room I wasn’t allowed to enter. Another 10 minutes passed before the technician came out and told me that Tough Guy had peed in the carrier and had trouble urinating for a glucose test to see if he was diabetic. So, they had to keep him for a few hours. I went home.

The only other time I left Tough Guy was when I took him to a groomer for a flea dip a few years ago. I swore I could hear him meowing while I was getting my hair washed at a styling salon around the corner. When I picked him up, he was silent and furious.

When I arrived at home, I changed into a t-shirt and sweat pants and cried on my bed, with Dame Jessye next to me. I felt that I had failed as a cat mom. I tried getting Tough Guy to eat less, but not hard enough. I wondered how I would inject a needle into my feline friend when I can’t stand the sight of needles.

At 8 p.m., I called the clinic, and the receptionist said I could pick up Tough Guy. He was eating turkey baby food and would have to eat it for five days. When I arrived, I waited with another young woman who brought in her Rottweiler named Kid. He looked like he weighed at least 100 pounds.

Finally, I spoke to the veterinarian Dr. Wolfe. She said, “Tough Guy’s not diabetic – yet.”

She instructed me to put Tough Guy on a diet of wet cat food because the dry cat food is full of carbs, to which he is sensitive. Also, he would have to be weighed every two weeks for the next six months to gauge his weight loss. Right now, he weighs 20 pounds. One could use Tough Guy to do arm curls or as a medicine ball, not that he would appreciate it.

The drive home was quiet. Tough Guy was unusually silent. When we got home, I let him out of his carrier, and he walked down the hall, sat, and proceeded to groom himself almost as if nothing had happened. Almost.

As I told my sister D last night, the experience was what Oprah Winfrey would call the “brick upside my head.” We’re all going on a diet.

Writing Diva

Hell on Earth

Over the past 28 hours I've been watching the coverage of the natural gas explosion and fire that destroyed a San Bruno, California, neighborhood. A 30-inch natural gas main apparently ruptured, and the ensuing explosion destroyed 37 homes and badly damaged 8 others. Four people died and others were injured, some burned badly.

Two of the people who died worked at the California Public Utilities Commission in San Francisco, where I worked from 2001 until 2005. Jacqueline Greig and her 13-year-old daughter Janessa were killed in the blast. Jacqueline Greig worked in the commission's Division of Ratepayer Advocates and was listed as a member of the natural gas committee of the National Association of State Utility Consumer Advocates, according to the San Francisco Chronicle. Greig had worked at the CPUC for 21 years.

The scenes on television were horrific. One house was completely engulfed in the early evening. By nightfall, more homes were burning. I felt sad for the homeowners and their families, as well as the city of San Bruno.

I also had a bit of schadenfreude regarding Pacific Gas and Electric Company. There were reports that neighbors had smelled gas and contacted the utility. PG&E officials reportedly said they were looking into their call records.

Two years ago there was a similar explosion that destroyed one home and damaged another in Rancho Cordova. One man was killed, and his daughter and granddaughter were injured. The natural gas pipeline involved was only two inches wide.

Earlier this year PG&E lost a multimillion-dollar election campaign that it funded to make it harder for communities to form their own electric and natural gas utility districts. Now this conflagration in San Bruno.

I'm sorry for the families in that affected neighborhood. And right now it sucks to be PG&E.

Writing Diva