Last night my friend the vet amputated my cat’s leg. It was the right thing to do for a whole variety of reasons, but it was still a very emotional decision to have to make. (Most of the story can be found here )
When Dan (my boyfriend) brought her home she immediately ran (yes ran) into the kitchen to demand food. Mind you, she’s just had a front leg amputate, and she’s 18 years old. Oh yeah, and has cancer.
She’s been spending a lot of time today in our laps, and Dusty (the vet) says to keep her confined when we’re not with her so that we can make sure she doesn’t get anywhere she can’t get out of until she has figured out the whole three-legged thing. That said, we’ve let her run around quite a bit as long as we’re supervising. She goes up and down the ramp to the couch (which I made for her a few years ago) and from room to room just fine.
Then Dominic (my son) told us a lie and we had to spend about 10 minutes dealing with that. During that time we weren’t watching Ding. After that, we sent Dominic to bed (a little early) and then looked around for Ding. We didn’t see her. We looked everywhere, then looked in the basement… then looked upstairs. Sure enough, she’d climbed the flight of stairs and gotten into my son’s bed (granted, it’s a trundle bed so it’s on the floor).
I sent my vet (as I said, also a close friend) a text message that she’d gone up the stairs just to sleep in Dominic’s bed and his exact words were “pardon my french, but unfuckingbelievable.” He said she’s well on her way to recovery, and it’s not even been 24 hours yet. Go Ding!
