Thought I'd share a little story with you guys. For the record, as stressful/upset/horrified as we were, we also did find it ridiculous and funny pretty much immediately. Only us.
Friday afternoon, the hubby came home at 3. THREE! HOORAY!
It's less impressive when you think that he got into work at 4 am, but I'll take it over 8 or 9 pm any day.
We had all the shades drawn, watching Raising Hope downstairs on the couch with Mav. It was exactly 4:58 pm. So essentially, it was 5 pm on a Friday. Of course.
I heard the same noise the hubby heard coming from behind us. I thought a kitty was having a sneeze or a small hissy fit with another cat, so I didn't even turn around. I just yelled, "Quit it!"
The hubby, however, turned and said, "Something's wrong." He paused the DVRed show. Obviously, the hubby was serious.
I looked at him, Mr. Works-All-The-Time as of late. I figured maybe he'd forgotten what it is like to be home because our cats are always making noises or being silly or even getting annoyed by one another. Fights are rare but once in a while 2 that don't get alone will pass by one another and give a little swat, sometimes playful, sometimes annoyed. A hiss or two is not unheard of but also, not the norm. No big deal. And I think I know when a situation is bad enough that I have to get up. If the hubby hadn't been home, I would not have gotten up. I probably wouldn't have even turned around.
Thankfully, I blindly followed his sixth sense, maybe as a way to be able to tell him he was crazy. To check on things and then be able to say to him, "See? Told you, it was nothing."
We have all these rescued kitties and they are, more than not, very happy. They're spoiled and adored. They live inside our house, far from the, ahem, dangers of the outside world, surrounded by kitty beds and kitty furniture and 2 people that love them and a dog that tolerates them.
I popped up off the couch to check on them.
Isley, our grey and white cat, had bounded down from the organ. He had been in the window (remember
where the curtains are closed). Sweet Pea, who had been sleeping on a bed on top of the organ, was sitting up, disturbed by Isley running past her but not in any major way. Isley was acting strange. I'll give the hubby that. Shaking his head, then running off.
Jeepers, Honey. Oh, wait. This is not news. Isley is strange. He is our weirdest cat. He's always anxious and he's on Prozac. That is not a joke. He's one of our 2 cats that have the behaviorist. A behaviorist that is more expensive than me going to a real shrink. Which, ironically, Isley is
thisclose to making me need on a regular basis just in general.
Isley, for the record, for all his faults, makes up for his shortcomings by being pretty adorable. He started like this in our home. Born under our front porch in a litter of feral kittens.
Hard to ignore, right?
Little meercat (with his sister Sweet Pea).
Oh, so feral. Ahem.
As time passed, he didn't lose much of the cute.
So, he's being himself, Professional Weirdo. Interrupting Raising Hope. Shocking.
I went over to Sweet Pea since Isley had disappeared up the stairs before I could even get a good look at him. I petted Sweet Pea's head. She was fine. Eyes still sort of droopy. Happy for a little attention, unmoved by much else. She'd obviously been sleeping.
So, to see if maybe there was a cat in the window perch behind the curtain, I took a peek through the opening. Leaned over Sweet Pea and took a look. Empty cat window perch. Nothing on the glass of the window. Well, dirt, but don't judge me. I don't see a damn thing out of the ordinary.
Then, who knows why, I looked at the back of the curtain as I pulled my head back. We have these dark brown curtains that my mom got us, thank God. The ones lined in white. They're insulated or something. So the back of the curtain is this blank sheet of white.
Oh, except for, you know, this curtain at this time. Oh, this curtain at this time?
Uh-oh.
My insides went, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Because I'm allergic to everything. And, you know, ouch.
Instead of screaming, I gave off a little noise, softly placed the curtain back, and said as calmly as I could to the hubby, "You have to kill that. You have to kill that now. I'll check on Isley. I think it's a bee."
I didn't look back as I ran up the stairs.
I chased Isley all over the house. He barely paused every couple seconds to act like he had peanut butter in his mouth or to attempt to throw up. Pretty.
I caught him many times, running my hands over him at first. I thought maybe he'd batted at it, got stung in a paw or on one of his front little legs. It was obvious his body was fine. I grabbed his mouth. Isley lets me give him medicine every day. He opens his little mouth super wide with no hesitation and no desire to shut it. Well, until of course this moment. He would not let me open his mouth. He used his claws and removed my hands with more force than seemed possible every time I tried to gingerly let him let me see in there.
I wrapped Isley in a towel so the hubby could hold him and his nails of fury. Isley did not like the towel. It was like he was more angry about the towel vs my trying to get into his mouth. At one point, I was able to crane his mouth open for a split second. Now, he has a little pink mouth with lots of grey spots in it anyways just from his coloring. And I haven't really ever "studied" his mouth. I couldn't ID him on a crime show by his mouth alone.
Still, I thought I saw something suspicious sticking out of the top of his tongue. Hard to judge since it was barely even a glimpse.
It was about 5 after 5 then.
The hubby told me to call our vet. NOW. Who closed at 5.
So I called, and our vet answered the phone himself. Because he's a good vet, and maybe he saw it was my number. Who knows. I quickly told him what happened, and he asked how quickly I could be at the office. I said 10 minutes. He said to bring him in immediately.
10 minutes never went so fast. The hubby and I hit our accelerate buttons. He was perfect as we yelled at each other to do the needed tasks. We flew around the house. He grabbed a carrier. I closed certain doors. He put the angel food cake away, lest we come home to a dog who has eaten an entire Sam's Club angel food cake, plastic packaging and all. The hubby hid the cage behind his back as I grabbed Isley to toss him inside.
We both threw on clothing that was appropriate to wear outdoors (sort of). I wore cut off sweatpants that were the hubby's in college, a tank top with a sweatshirt thrown on top, and neon green flipflops. Not my typical "Hi there, Outside World!" look. I haven't showered or brushed my teeth because I have been meaning to do yard work and showering pre-yardwork is ridiculous. Ask anyone with half a brain. But then I kept getting sidetracked or tired or just didn't wanna. Obviously. I hadn't brushed my hair in days. My face was a mess. At least I was wearing a bra. So, well, small miracles.
The hubby managed to sneak on jeans at some point. Not that it mattered. He looked presentable because he's a guy and he'd gone to work earlier. He may have been wearing his soccer shirt, but at least he was presentable. His pj shorts wouldn't have mattered.
We hit every light on the way to the vet. We were worried about Isley, telling him to stay awake during the drive. Imagining him having a reaction, or even not. Even without a reaction, his tongue could be swelling, limiting his ability to eat and drink at best, cutting off his air supply at worst. I hated the idea of him in pain. I was trying not get a heart condition myself.
At the same time, we were like, this doesn't happen to other people. We were all too well aware of this. Doesn't happen. To other cats. Other cat owners.
This can't even be categorized as first world problems. These are crazy people problems. Seriously, have you ever known anyone who had to do this?
The hubby just responded by saying, "Special needs cats, Honey" and I said, "Some people barely take their pets into the vet once a year. Ours manage to not only get stung by a bee, but stung by a bee on his tongue."
The hubby drove me up to the door, where I flew in with Isley, and our vet was waiting in the front. I was already flying down his little hall and he just yelled, "Second room!"
We looked at each other when we got into the room together and immediately, instead of saying any words, had a little laugh. Because, you know, only us.
We got Isley out of his carrier. He was riled up, to say the least. In his defense, he had just had an exciting fourth of an hour. And it obviously wasn't getting any better. He hates the vet. This was just piling on for him.
I wish animals knew that you were trying to help them, or at least could be soothed by some sort of knowledge, some sort of communication. I wanted to at least tell him it would be over soon. Go to your happy place, Buddy. We're here to help you, Little Man,
I wanted to be all, "Think about the laser pointer!" or "You're in a box!" He loves getting into things. Last time I got a box in the mail, I hadn't even had time to look at its contents on the counter before turning to find Isley in the box.
Why do we buy you toys and beds again?
What do you mean I can't see you? Of course I can see you, Genius.
Yeah, yeah. Nirvana. I get it.
Can I recycle that now, please?
Isley's response, "BOX!"
*Kitty jazz paws*
Always the wonderful vet, our doctor and his trusty tech Chris attempted to stick Isley on the scale. I knew this would help them decide how much medicine to give him if he needed medicine. Oh, he was such a little trooper. If by little trooper, you mean little sh*t who acted like being held and being weighed was simply a cover for "these people are trying to kill me."
He hissed and refused to be set down on the scale, trying to escape.
Finally, they got a close-enough weight, then the vet opened Isley's mouth with a little help from Chris. She held Isley as the vet turned to get some tweezers and some local pain killer.
Our vet said, "I want to do this without anesthesia, but we'll use it if we have to." Then, he had me AND the hubby hold down Isley's 8 pound body as Chris held open Isley's mouth. Our vet just went right in and tweezed the stinger right out. It had been on the front half of the top of his tongue. Removing it seemed so easy to our vet, like he was snapping his fingers. It took seconds. Maybe not even. The vet put the stinger on a white napkin so we could see it.
Isley got some injections (a steroid and a drug similar to Benadryl) and the vet gave us some extra steroids in case Isley had any swelling or problems over the weekend.
The vet said, "I've seen dumb dogs get stung in the mouth by a bee, but I have rarely seen a cat get stung, and I've never seen a sting on their actual tongue. Around the mouth, yes. Tongue, no."
For the record, he is not a young vet. He probably could have retired years ago. He's been around the proverbial block more than a time or two. The Happy Wife house, always making his job new and exciting. We're a family of firsts for him.
Isley has been doing fine since. He actually came home and ate some food almost immediately. Before I had time to even put my purse away. Sigh.
So, yeah. Our cat decided to attack a bee
with his mouth because how else would a cat do that and got stung on his tongue, which resulted in our wonderful vet staying late and an emergency visit to him. Only us. Only our cat. Lord.
Thank God for my husband and his ability to react in a crisis. Quick, thoughtful actions. I may have gotten to the same place without him but how long would it have taken? Especially if I had never even gotten up?
And no matter how elevated my own heartbeat was, the hubby kept cool. He kept his worry at a simmer and managed to keep mine under wraps as well. Allowing us to move. To act. To make sure one of our little 4-legged
freakshows morons monsters kids was fine. So that he can continue driving us bananas for years to come.
This photo demonstrates why we should have just assumed
he'd been stung on his tongue.
