Sunday, sweet Sunday

One minute she was fine. The next, our cat, Truffle, had cystitis. It comes on that fast. Cystitis is a urinary tract infection which causes her to pee in strange places, like inside a conch shell on the mantel.

It isn't pretty.

Sunday is emergency day at the animal hospital. Everything costs more. Truffle is a high-rent cat and nearly always gets sick on Sundays.

We stuffed her into her paisley carrier with fleece lining and turned ourselves in to the authorities.

We were told that the wait would be at least an hour, probably more. As it turned out, it was a conservative estimate.

Athena and Hera, a pair of self-important Jack Russell Terriers, were inordinately interested in Truffle. The Goddess of Wisdom and the Goddess of Love and Marriage cavorted around the waiting room, sniffing her carrier and whimpering with desire.

Truffle said, "Fffffffttttt," which they took as an invitation to come closer.

"Piss off, losers," she snarled.

Truffle does not suffer fools gladly.

A golden-haired Standard Poodle named Django trotted over. The gentleman accompanying him, when he saw that the name resonated with us, said, "It's Django Dogheart."

Big points there. Any friend of Django's is a friend of ours.

Django was a mellow sort. He sniffed at Truffle and she gazed back at him. No profanities were uttered.

Finally, we were ushered into the examining room. The veterinary assistant committed the unforgivable indignity of taking Truffle's temperature rectally. She tried to cover her tracks by cooing, "Ooooh, sweeeet kitty-kitty."

"Motherfucker," said Truffle.

I would feel the same.

It was a hit and run job. She fled and the doctor came in, a pleasant young woman who talked much too loud.

Truffle kept trying to slip into her carrier. I dragged her back and lowered my voice because sometimes people who talk too loud will copy your tone, but she didn't. I spoke softer and softer and she bellowed louder and louder.

I wanted to say, "Excuse me but you're scaring my cat," but you really can't do that. To your vet. Truffle got 3/4 of the way into her carrier and I hauled her out again. She glared at me and growled.

I knew what she was saying but chose to ignore it. My mother would have washed my mouth out for less.

We were finally released and Truffle has had her first dose of medicine, buried in Gerber's baby food, chicken. She is back on her throne, otherwise known as our bed, and doubtless plotting her revenge.

It won't be pretty.