We took Abby to the vet on Friday. We can’t put her in a carrier anymore due to her horrible, horrible anxiety, so we’ve been putting a collar and leash on her instead. It calms her down considerably, but still results in her huddling in the rear window of the car, meowing repeatedly and miserably at top volume to other cars while shedding the equivalent of Robin Williams’ back hair.
This time though, after getting her into the car, she immediately clambered onto my lap where she sat quietly, without meowing, the entire drive to the vet.
It was spooky. Especially when this behavior was repeated on the way home, after she had received two vaccinations, got her claws trimmed, and had TWO blood draws. I think she was plotting.
The vet wanted to schedule a visit to clean Abby’s teeth, but I am resistant to that idea because 1) she only has two teeth that have plaque, and 2) she is getting old, and I am worried about the effects of anesthesia on her because 3) one time I gave her a vet-prescribed pill to calm her down when traveling from Fargo to Minneapolis and after letting her out in the new apartment, she immediately jumped to the top of the refrigerator, where I caught her staggering drunkenly, about to totter off the edge.
So… has anyone ever gotten their cats’ teeth cleaned? Yay or nay?
Today, while eating lunch at my desk, I knitted while keeping up with the Twins on ESPN’s GameCast. For I am a dorky multi-tasker. (Also, I may have been listening to AC/DC on my iTunes. I said may have.)
As I knitted the back half of my tank top (whose front armhole shaping required such strategic pattern decreases that the part of my brain reserved for difficult mathematical equations did more work in one day than in its previous 31 years and is now not speaking to me), one of my new, moderately priced bamboo knitting needles slid a nifty splinter directly into my thumb.
Horrified, I said out loud to the offending needle, “OK, we’re DONE now.” Then I proceeded to the nearby first aid kit, procured a pair of tweezers, used my magnifying glass and dug around for 15 minutes to no avail. Now I have a sharp miniscule bump protruding from my ravaged thumb, and my eyesight features a handy dandy fuzzy spot in the middle of my vision. Apparently my pain-handling-to-nausea-ratio is slim. This bodes well for any future maternity plans.
This morning as I was opening the freezer to get ice for the cats’ water (shut up), two pounds of hamburger, one pound of bacon, a ginormous pack of tortillas and two packages of hot dogs came hurtling out of the appliance and applied themselves to the top of my bare foot with such velocity that I was too stunned to mutter my standard off-color response to such situations.
I guess I should’ve seen it coming from the hot dogs, but the bacon? After all I’ve done for you?
Anyway, I have been plotting this week’s demise since last Sunday, and it is now finally Friday. My plans this weekend are delightfully slim: eat at Jimmy John’s, buy a grill and clean the house. And maybe attempt to put together the 438-piece grill. And then grill two pounds of hamburger, one pound of bacon, and two packages of hot dogs.
And serve it all in some tortillas.
Minor, petty thing #34 I wonder about:
Why is it when walking through the wind tunnel that is downtown Minneapolis, my hair never gets blown gracefully across my face, but instead, is wind-whipped violently into my mouth or nose or eyes, and I can never do that graceful headshake to loosen it, so that I appear to the general public to be vehemently disagreeing with the voices in my head?
