Well, so much for being given the clean bill of health until February. I pee in the closet one time--just one time--and suddenly The Animator’s Wife is whisking me away to the vet’s office because something must be wrong. Okay, so she was right. It turns out I have a urinary tract infection. They gave me some antibiotic pills and told us to come back in two weeks.
I hate taking pills. Every time I have to take pills, it becomes a big ordeal with The Animator’s Wife chasing me down and me desperately eluding her grasp, and the whole week becomes one of fear and frustration for the both of us.
Well this time The Animator took pity on us, and he suggested giving my pills in a piece of ham. The Animator’s Wife just rolled her eyes and said, “Cats don’t take pills that way.” Little does she know The Animator has been slipping me some ham in the kitchen every time he makes a sandwich. That's our little secret. I love The Animator’s Wife, but it was quite amusing to see the look of shock on her face when The Animator offered me my pill wrapped in some shaved ham and I gobbled it right down.
The Dog came home that day exhausted and annoyed, with a shaved belly to boot. He just looked at me and said, “All this because I refused to eat a freaking potato chip,” and went to curl up in Osiris’s bed and fall asleep. Honestly, I found it difficult to feel sorry for him. He did it to himself, after all. I know he gets bored sometimes being locked in the kitchen all day, but eating leftovers out of the trash is not the best way to occupy one’s time. He thought he was being so sneaky, pulling things out of the top and not knocking the trash can over so no one would suspect.
Well, The Animator and his Wife may not know he got into the trash, but they do know that he is a dog that does not refuse table scraps. And it turns out they were right again. The Dog now has an inflamed pancreas from his dietary indiscretions. I don’t know what a pancreas is, but I do know the treatment for it is pretty nice: nothing but boiled hamburger and rice for a week.
Anyway, he was the only one she missed the mark on. He doesn’t have any of those old-cat diseases that makes them slowly waste away; he’s just getting older and losing muscle mass. Can you believe it? My Osiris, my big, beautiful brother, getting old? He’s only eight!
So we’re all pretty much even now. Osiris gets his canned food, The Dog gets his home cooked diet, and I get my shaved ham. Maybe we should all get sick more often.