Tuesday was one of those days. Throughout last week's train trip, I had an itchy nose and sneezing fits that made me wonder if the Omicron variant had sneaked up on me. Those symptoms had subsided by the time I got home, but on Saturday and Sunday I found myself sleeping ten hours at night, napping during the day, and feeling generally exhausted. In normal times? Hey, I'd say, coming down with a cold, or maybe just not enough sleep while traveling.
But these aren't normal times.
So I trotted off to the University campus for a free Seattle/UW PCR test on Monday. Tuesday morning, the result came back: NEGATIVE!
But by the time I discovered that I had no Covid-19 worries, I was beset with new worries. My feline companion Castor, after spending half the night on my bed (in itself unusual -- it's usually his brother), was discovered downstairs at 3 a.m., curled up in his kitty litter box. Hours later, when I got up, he was still there -- awake, conscious, but not chipper.
I mulled over how serious this might or might not be, seeking wisdom and knowledge from the Internet. But then I discovered him trying mightily, to no avail, to urinate in his litter. That did it. I'd had a cat years ago -- Theseus by name -- who didn't sleep in his litter, but who strained mightily to pee in the bathtub drain. It was serious, and resulted in surgery to remove the constricting portion of his urethra.
I called my vet. They were booked solid and couldn't see him. They did send me a list of Urgent Care veterinarians who might have openings. The first one I called was not too far from my house, and they suggested I bring him in for evaluation.
I did so. Yup, he had a blocked urinary tract. Contrary to my former veterinarian's response to Theseus, they didn't like to try surgery as a first resort. They recommended that he be immediately catheterized, allowing the blocking crystals to escape, and that we then discuss possible changes in his diet.
And so we did. I nearly required medical care myself when given an estimate for the treatment. I joked that I'd have to talk to my banker about a second mortgage. I once more find that receptionists don't always have lively senses of humor.
So that was Tuesday morning. It's now Thursday, and I've been receiving semi-daily updates on his condition. Which is improving rapidly, alleviating concern about long-term damage to the poor guy's kidneys. They intended to remove the catheter about an hour ago, and test his blood to determine his kidney function. If all seems normal, they will then call me at about dinner time about picking him up.
His brother Pollux, at first very casual about Castor's absence -- Castor does wander off for hours or more at at time -- has been showing signs of stress this morning. "What did you do with him?" I read in his eyes, accusingly. "Patience, grasshopper," I advise him. "All will soon become clear."
If all goes as expected, by bedtime tonight I'll be able to consider today yet another "best of times." Even though both cats will be out the door, deserting me to make their nightly rounds. And even though I'll be left financially devastated.
Now I have to worry whether Brother Pollux will also have a genetic tendency to develop such an expensive malady.
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