Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
Monday, February 16, 2004 The Littlest Vet
The original plan for this past weekend was to go down to Iowa for Deniece’s second birthday party.
I don’t mean the party for her second birthday. I mean her second birthday party this year. Toddlers’ birthdays get pretty well booked up, you know. Don’t believe me? Her actual second birthday was on the twentieth of January—and apparently it’s still going on.
For a while now, Deniece has been old enough to understand when we’re coming to visit, and to get excited about it. Her parents like to tell her as early as possible, because then she tends to spend hours watching out the front window for us, and she’s a lot easier to handle then. At least this is what her parents tell us. It could be so much flattery, for all we know.
Sadly, between my working weekends and Trash’s out-of-town conferences, we haven’t been able to make it down there since before Christmas. We were beginning to worry that Deniece might have forgotten who we are. She’s at that dangerous age, you know, where she can permanently bond with the mailman or a waiter or something, causing us to lose our place in her heart forever.
We were just going to go for the weekend, just long enough to refresh her memory of us, and then on Wednesday Strat decided that, you know, maybe eating’s just not for him any more.
We were working on arrangements to have people come over and give him his twice-daily shots and everything, but he decided to complicate things by refusing to eat anything except straight tuna. And then refusing to eat that.
We made an appointment with the vet (and if I haven’t said so before, I would just like to mention how much it rocks to have a veterinarian whose office is seven blocks away) and brought him in. She couldn’t find anything wrong with him, but she suggested a different food. He advised us to keep a close eye on him and watch his food intake and to bring him right in if he started, you know, dying. Somehow neither Trash nor myself felt comfortable leaving that instruction on a note in the kitchen for our hapless surrogate kitty caretakers.
So we stayed home. We explained to Trash’s brother and his wife why we didn’t want to leave Strat, and they understood. Explaining it to Deniece, as it turns out, was a little more difficult.
Trash got a call at work late last week. From Deniece.
“Not coming? You and M. not coming?”
“I’m sorry, Deniece, we can’t. Our kitty is sick.”
“Yes, Strat is sick. We can’t leave him when he’s sick.”
“I have medicine. I give him some.”
“I don’t think that’ll work.”
“Bring Strat. I take care of him. Make him better.”
“That’s very sweet.”
“You should give him a bath. Lots of bubbles.”
“Lots of bubbles, huh?”
So she’s not only old enough to get excited about us coming, she’s old enough to be disappointed when we cancel.
We did stay home for the weekend, and Strat likes his new food, even when we don’t mix tuna in with it. The vet called with the test results, and his fructosamine is fine, although how anything with a name like “fructosamine” could ever be good is beyond me. Strat did survive the weekend, and he probably would have even in our absence, but whether we would have is another question entirely.
Trash talked to the birthday girl again today.
“Yes, Deniece, Strat feels much better.”
“Strat all better?”
“All better. I gave him a bath with lots of bubbles, like you said.”
“LOTS of bubbles. Bye.”
Less than a year ago, her word for bubbles was BAAH!. Now she can not only pronounce them, she can prescribe them.
We have to get beck down there soon, before she starts veterinary school.
Today’s best search phrase: None, but what’s with all the image searches all of a sudden? I have no idea what’s going on there.
posted by M. Giant 4:37 PM 0 comments