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For the first time in her nearly 17 years, Cricket is sick.
She's lying at the foot of the bed, where she's been since we returned from the vet tonight. She's stable and mostly comfortable. This is enough right now.
She seemed fine earlier. She woke me from a nap to ask for dinner, knocking my lip balm off the night table and patting my hair. She hung around the kitchen while I fed her, stayed behind to eat, hopped back on the bed to wash her face with loud, satisfied smacks. A short time later, she went to the kitchen for some water, and when she returned, she couldn't catch her breath.
I had glanced at her reflexively and noticed that her mouth was open. She was standing motionless, her breathing labored, her sides heaving with the effort. By the time I got the vet's office on the phone, her mouth was closed, but she was still breathing heavily. Thankfully, she chose to go into respiratory distress on the one night a week the vet is open late. (I would have taken her to a 24-hour animal hospital, but her usual vet is my first choice.) Seatmate, who had come by after work, came with us.
The vet took x-rays and returned looking grim. The films showed a really staggering amount of fluid in her chest. No wonder she couldn't breathe. We waited up front while they drained her of 350 ml. That's the size of a can of Pepsi. I can't figure out how that much fluid fit in a ten-pound cat. The vet was surprised that Cricket had wanted dinner.
Tomorrow they will send a sample off for analysis, and some type of bad news will return. I'm not bothering to speculate. For now, it's enough to watch my cat sleep.
She's lying at the foot of the bed, where she's been since we returned from the vet tonight. She's stable and mostly comfortable. This is enough right now.
She seemed fine earlier. She woke me from a nap to ask for dinner, knocking my lip balm off the night table and patting my hair. She hung around the kitchen while I fed her, stayed behind to eat, hopped back on the bed to wash her face with loud, satisfied smacks. A short time later, she went to the kitchen for some water, and when she returned, she couldn't catch her breath.
I had glanced at her reflexively and noticed that her mouth was open. She was standing motionless, her breathing labored, her sides heaving with the effort. By the time I got the vet's office on the phone, her mouth was closed, but she was still breathing heavily. Thankfully, she chose to go into respiratory distress on the one night a week the vet is open late. (I would have taken her to a 24-hour animal hospital, but her usual vet is my first choice.) Seatmate, who had come by after work, came with us.
The vet took x-rays and returned looking grim. The films showed a really staggering amount of fluid in her chest. No wonder she couldn't breathe. We waited up front while they drained her of 350 ml. That's the size of a can of Pepsi. I can't figure out how that much fluid fit in a ten-pound cat. The vet was surprised that Cricket had wanted dinner.
Tomorrow they will send a sample off for analysis, and some type of bad news will return. I'm not bothering to speculate. For now, it's enough to watch my cat sleep.
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You know I'm here for anything.
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*love*