There are few things that cause me to feel the physical sensations of stress like a trip to the vets. It's ridiculous that I seem to handle a visit to a human hospital better than one for our little furry companions, but there it is. Perhaps its because a trip to the vets highlights how vulnerable they are and how dependent they are on us to do the right thing for them.
The universe saw fit to demonstrate this again on Monday night, when we had to take the big furball to the pet hospital.
Unlike Her Highness, The Yowler is a bit on the delicate side. He's not a legend by any means, but he is known at the vets as the kitty who gave himself a bleeding nose. That story involves messy eating habits, sneezing, and the cross bar on our kitchen island and will eventually be told.
He's been in for the current problem before (not chronic, just repetitive), and he's always come out just fine, but that doesn't stop my chest from feeling tight or my stomach from flipping when it's gently suggested that he stay overnight for fluids and tests. There's something heart-breaking about having to leave without him, even if it's only for an overnight visit. The big swaggering boy reverts to kitten mode, complete with sweaty little paws, big wide eyes and squirmy hide-in-the closest-arms behavior-- what choice does my momma instinct have but to kick in?
He's at home now, and we're waiting on the results of some blood tests. He was on some serious drugs when we picked him up, and he spent most of the evening in his favourite chair, looking extremely baked. I managed to resist the temptation to offer him a twinkie, but only just. And the brand-new bandy-legged walk he's got thanks to the bandage on his back leg? Priceless.