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And The Cobbler's Children Go Barefoot
May. 2nd, 2006 04:23 pmTomorrow I go back to work. I'm rather happy about this; it'll feel good to be productive again. I'm fairly certain my husband is happy about it, since he tends to support things that make me feel better about myself. My doctor seems happy with the decision, and I'm sure my employer is happy - he had been panicking since January that any possible surgery might interfere with me working at his clinic. As a matter of fact, as far as I can tell, everyone I can imagine will be happy, with two small exceptions. Namely, my cats.
The cats have spent the past week apparently convinced that they have some how been bodily transported into kitty heaven. For the past six days, I have been home almost constantly, and trapped in bed or on the sofa with a warm snuggly blanket over my lap. Aside from the occasional brief tussle over who gets to sit on my lap versus on my feet, they have spent upwards of 18 hours each day sleeping, purring, and kneading while curled up on top of me. I can only imagine how betrayed they'll feel when I abandon them again for my regular home-in-the-evenings-only life.
I had actually decided to take advantage of this situation, and give the boys their incredibly overdue annual checkups. I'm a horrible pet owner, honestly - while I keep scrupulously close watch over my cats, and drag them off to work at the first sign of any problem, I haven't vaccinated them in forever and a day, and I've fallen pretty far behind on giving them actual physical exams. So today I hobbled over to my little black bag and pulled out my stethoscope, and started giving them each a thorough checkup.
I can't do it.
It's not that I'm squeamish about examining my own animals. It's not that I keep getting distracted or interrupted, or that I can't bring myself to poke or squeeze them, or that I'm afraid to look for fear of what I'll find. No; I can't examine them because they're too blissed-out.
I can check their teeth, and their coats, and their joints. I can palpate their abdomens, and scrutinize most of their being with an intense scrute. But every time I try to listen to their hearts and lungs, they start purring loudly enough to deafen me. All they know is that mommy is holding them, and they're sitting near her, and nothing else will bother them in the least.
I've tried every trick I know to get them to stop. I've even tried having my sweetie hold them, but as soon as my hands get near with the stethoscope they start rumbling joyfully. Even sneaking up with it while they're asleep doesn't work. I could try dragging them into an office with me, in the hopes that the unusual setting will disturb them enough to make them stop, but that'll have to wait until I'm off crutches, which is likely to be a while.
My cats are too happy; I can't examine them properly. The irony is almost enough to smother the guilt.....
The cats have spent the past week apparently convinced that they have some how been bodily transported into kitty heaven. For the past six days, I have been home almost constantly, and trapped in bed or on the sofa with a warm snuggly blanket over my lap. Aside from the occasional brief tussle over who gets to sit on my lap versus on my feet, they have spent upwards of 18 hours each day sleeping, purring, and kneading while curled up on top of me. I can only imagine how betrayed they'll feel when I abandon them again for my regular home-in-the-evenings-only life.
I had actually decided to take advantage of this situation, and give the boys their incredibly overdue annual checkups. I'm a horrible pet owner, honestly - while I keep scrupulously close watch over my cats, and drag them off to work at the first sign of any problem, I haven't vaccinated them in forever and a day, and I've fallen pretty far behind on giving them actual physical exams. So today I hobbled over to my little black bag and pulled out my stethoscope, and started giving them each a thorough checkup.
I can't do it.
It's not that I'm squeamish about examining my own animals. It's not that I keep getting distracted or interrupted, or that I can't bring myself to poke or squeeze them, or that I'm afraid to look for fear of what I'll find. No; I can't examine them because they're too blissed-out.
I can check their teeth, and their coats, and their joints. I can palpate their abdomens, and scrutinize most of their being with an intense scrute. But every time I try to listen to their hearts and lungs, they start purring loudly enough to deafen me. All they know is that mommy is holding them, and they're sitting near her, and nothing else will bother them in the least.
I've tried every trick I know to get them to stop. I've even tried having my sweetie hold them, but as soon as my hands get near with the stethoscope they start rumbling joyfully. Even sneaking up with it while they're asleep doesn't work. I could try dragging them into an office with me, in the hopes that the unusual setting will disturb them enough to make them stop, but that'll have to wait until I'm off crutches, which is likely to be a while.
My cats are too happy; I can't examine them properly. The irony is almost enough to smother the guilt.....
