I'm so fried. We're interviewing people today, and the shorts I threw on to take the cat to the vet in a big hurry this morning are the ones I wore to mow the yard the other day, after having worn them one day before that. The subtext of interviewing here today is "What's that smell?" (I can only hope it's that generalized.)
On the way to the vet a coupla nights ago to get his busted abscess sewn up, he was meowing up a storm in the crate. He'd also been meowing a lot while exploring new spaces at home, but these meows sometimes sounded like he was saying "Howl!" So the John Doe name I gave at the vet's was Ginsberg. Except they spelled it Ginsburg. These are the working names, TBD if he and his urethra-adjacent tissues survive this infection and I meet his regular personality:
I Can't Remember but Probably Others
A lot of the practical difficulty of managing his recovery and healing involves the need for his movements to be restricted and his head to have a cone on it whenever I'm not very actively keeping him from futzing with his body's sensitive parts, his shirt, or the sludge he was covered in this morning, having mixed a bowl of water with a box of scoopable litter. Tracy's out now getting me a litter made of old newsprint. This is very nice of hers, particularly cuz she too got very little sleep last night.
I'd tried sleeping with him and waking when he started moving, cuz he's just not allowed to walk around. But by the middle of the night I was getting slower in reaction time, and was afraid he'd get away from me and hurt himself. Then I thought he was just meowing cuz he wanted out of the crate. Poor bugger.
Up side: they'll get a look at his suturing and drain and check his urination system and such. And he'll get a clean shirt, or maybe be able to go without one, depending how the wound's doing.
Now Kerri's out trying to get the special cat litter, as Tracy tried two places, to no avail, and we have an interview soon. And then I'm leaving.
These are lots of stream-of-consciousness things that are lousy blog content, I bet. I am somehow liking putting the little thoughts together as if there's a logic to things and words can contain possibility. Probably a form of anxiety. So much is a form of anxiety.