Remember Eli?
Eli has taken to chasing his tail (and catching it) again, an activity that apparently became an obsession when I was in London (he doesn't have to like me, apparently to miss my presence in the house during the day). Upon my return, it became routine for us to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of a hissing, spitting cat fight taking place at the foot of the bed (and we only have the one cat).
Last Monday morning, I was sitting in the living room when I heard ear-splitting yowling coming from the kitchen. I ran into a scene straight out of a horror movie, as blood gushed from a three-inch gash at the end of Eli's tail. I simultaneously applied pressure and called the vet.
It turns out that he also had severely impacted anal glands (sorry if this grosses you out, I did warn you, though the blog is "Not Just About Cancer") and is hyperthyroid (this will mean medication for the rest of his life.
Every morning, I now find myself administering antibiotics and thyroid meds, then feeding wet food that has been sprinkled with metamucil to the cat, even before I have had coffee or breakfast.
And we haven't even begun to deal with the crazy (because although the anal glands and the thyroid problem may have made things worse, they aren't really the root of the problem).
OK, so maybe I feel a little sorry for him.
After fourteen years, it's hard not to be a little attached.
And he's always had a certain sociopathic charm.
I've got to go hold him down now, so that my spouse can change his bandages.
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