So why is it?

You have to love it. First of all, I was told my doctor would be back today. I call to make my appointment, and guess who won’t be in. Don’t rack your brains too hard on this one, it’s supposed to be a gimme.

So I settle for Dr. Replacement, after convincing the girl who’s paid to run interference between doctors and phones that yes, I know that there isn’t much to be done for the flu, but I’m also in liver failure and maybe that makes me one of those special needs cases that someone should at least take a peek at before she decides to go belly-up.

Of course, once I’ve forced my way in for a visit (which is in two hours) the inevitable happens. I begin to get better. There’s nothing like a doctor’s appointment for scaring away what ails you.

Actually, since all this began I’ve had a “window of feel-good” in the late morning. If it runs anything like yesterday, I should start feeling punk again in about an hour. And the fever (which conveniently broke as I was making the appointment) may well return then too, as it did yesterday. We’ll see.

Meanwhile, my little comforting Grey Kitten Monster has been busy behind my back. The little creep knocked over my ten pound Webster’s dictionary, chewed off the corner of my Malory’s “Le Mort D’Arthur”, and stole my original honest-to-God off-the-set Star Trek Tribble from down off the CD racks and pulled tufts of hair out of it. I think it’s “Le Mort D’Arthur” that hurts the worst. I always keep my books in pristine condition. I’ve had this since 1975, and it looked like it could have come straight from a bookstore. Now it looks like the rats have been at it for nesting material. I’m considering making her eat the rest of the book as a punishment, but she’d probably end up with a blockage that would cost me my next three paychecks at the veterinarian’s to heal.

Speaking of cats, I took the O’beast to the vets on Friday for his boosters (with a lot of help from The Socialist, seeing as how I was too weak to even lift the carrier he was in). I’d fed him an hour and a half before, because I figured he wasn’t going to be in any mood to eat afterwards; boosters usually wipe him out for a day or so. About half-way to the vet’s, my sick little self looked over at The Socialist who was driving and asked “Is that smell what I think it is?” Seconds later, and there was no need to ask. O’Beast had done something he’d never done before in a carrier. He took what had to be a massive dump. Which didn’t help my pre-existing nausea one bit. Not much later on, it became apparent that even the O’Beast himself couldn’t stand the odor, as sounds of retching came from the carrier. OK, it was double duty clean-up now.

It was embarrassing bringing him into the clinic. I think the smell entered first. They were very good about getting the brat cleaned up, and even gave me a new towel to line the carrier to take him home with. He got his shots, and was as good as ever about that. Then it was time to be weighed. Keep in mind that this cat has been given carefully measured portions at all his feedings. I had feared he’d put on a little weight from raiding other cat bowls, but he’s back up to FIFTEEN POUNDS! This is not a cat, this is a blimp. So yes, we’re back on the diet again. Eighth of a cup for breakfast, eighth for dinner, no rounding, no lunch. He hasn’t protested much yet, but I have to babysit all the food bowls until they are all empty. He does check out every single food bowl after his own is emptied. Several times. The Tub-azoid’s heart murmer is worse now though, and this is for his own good, whether or not he sees it that way.

Best get ready to visit Dr. Replacement. And see if I can find out where my real doctor has disappeared to.