Well, he’s home. Still limping, but on the mend. He doesn’t say ‘ouch’ when he puts his paw to the ground, but there is still a fair amount of holding it in the air. When he got out of his basket he was rather wobbly, and I thought he might be happy to go to sleep.
He had other plans.
First, dinner. Half a sachet, the vet told me. And that is all he’s had, but if I move towards the kitchen he’s there like a shot.
Keep him in for a few days, she said. I don’t think he was listening. For the past hour he has sat beside the door, only moving if I have gone into the kitchen. He has kept a constant litany, a discontented wail to tell me how much he wants to go out. Just in case I haven’t understood, periodically he has scrabbled at the door.
I was planning an early night anyway, but I think sleep is the only thing that will bring an end to his complaints.
I am consoling myself with the thought that I would be much more worried if he were quiet and lethargic. Except a quiet lethargic cat sounds a lovely idea right now.
We travelled down to the vet’s by bus, since I still can’t drive. MasterB was less than impressed at being carried in his basket along the main road. They must have been able to hear him for miles. On the bus he settled into an uneasy silence, broken every time the bus made a loud unfamiliar sound, with a sad cry. I rubbed his nose through the slats of the basket.
He had a raised temperature, and became distressed when the vet tried to shave away the fur from the injury site. She decided it would be better to keep him in and clean it up under anaesthetic. Still, I finally got a look at the extent of the damage; two bites producing an impressive amount of pus. It turned out there was a third bite too, but the site of that one had not developed an abscess.
So I left him there and came home. Vacuumed the flat and waited for the ‘phone to ring. Octavia kindly texted to offer to collect him by car, which made the return journey much less stressful than the outward one. He is full of antibiotic. My job is to keep the wound site clean by bathing it twice a day, confine him so that he doesn’t roll in the grass and get it infected, and watch out for his adversary, and dissuade him from coming into our garden.
It seems the Ginger Ninja is now of age, and has to protect his patch, but I am not going to leave it to him to do alone.
Maybe all that complaining has tired him out. He has just leapt onto the sofa and draped himself across my leg.