It goes like this:
I was getting ready to leave my apartment for a 4 year old's birthday yesterday around noon. As is my habit, I made sure that my cat had fresh food and water, and then went to say "so long".
But I couldn't find him anywhere. I searched possible exits (2) to see if he'd somehow let himself outside. Exits intact. Next, I completely panicked. He is not a cat that will ignore you if you are wandering around the house calling him, particularly if you're opening a can of tuna as loudly as possible (as I was). I made a thorough search of every possible hiding place and finally found him barricaded under the couch.
Basically non-responsive. I had to give him a good shake before he would eke out a quiet "mew". The only sign of life he showed was when I forcefully removed him from under the couch and he fought me all the way.
I should backtrack a bit and say that in my searching, I found an alarming number of puddles of vomit.
The Orange One has always been kind of a pukey cat. He eats too fast sometimes, and throws up. He over-grooms most of the time, gets hairballs, and throws up. I don't think it's necessary to say that this vomit was much, much different. But it was.
After many phone calls, I managed to find a vet that could accept an emergency patient. I took him in, and he was admitted immediately.
His first 18 hours were not promising. He didn't get any worse, but he didn't get any better. When I spoke to the vets on the phone (about every 90 minutes), they were carefully choosing their words, talking about "if" he got better, not "when".
The time I spent on the phone I tried to be strong and think of things in an objectively medical way, so that I could coherently ask questions and hear answers.
The time not on the phone I spent clutching a photo of him, weeping, and repeating "you're going to be okay, you have to be okay, you're going to be okay.... etc." Alternating that with very realistic images of having to make the decision to put him to sleep. What I would do, what I would say. Stroking his head and being as soothing as possible... I had specifics in my head that I can't go into because thinking about it has me crying like a damn fool.
He's taken a turn for the much, much better. I visited earlier this evening, and while he is still not eating or drinking anything, he at least is acting like himself. Not at all like the cat that crawled under the couch to die yesterday. Exactly like the cat that is insanely happy just to be near me but has about a 45 second tolerance for being restrained by my loving arms and a 0 second tolerance for being restrained by anything else, such as a portable IV.
I had been in such agitation that I didn't eat any more today than he did, but after seeing him feeling better I felt confident enough to attempt a small meal. After paying for my veggie dog from a nearby street meat vendor, I noticed a wooden box attached to the cart (with coin slot) labelled, "wishing well". I naturally deposited some coins and made a silent prayer to the patron saint of hot dogs for The Orange One's return to health and subsequent longevity.
I remember a few years ago after a co-worker and cat-lover had a baby. One of the things she said in the aftermath was that she didn't love her cats any less, but, if there were food shortages in the event of a zombie apocalypse, as soon as her daughter uttered the words, "I'm hungry", the cats would be shortlisted for the barbeque.
I'm trying hard to be casual and flippant because the alternative is to curl up in a fetal position and sob. Anyway. I'm off to watch episodes of MythBusters in the hope that I can be lulled to sleep.
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