Not In Kansas Anymore...

Click your heels, and see if home is where you hang your hat, or somewhere else inside yourself as this simple, postmodern girl takes on L.A.

Friday, August 11, 2006

He BIT me. My cat bit me. Griffin BIT me.

In his defense, he can't speak, so I guess it was one way to get the point across. But I've had him for 13 fuckin' years, did he have to clamp down and not let go? It HURT. It drew blood. I had to call the ER to see if I needed a shot ( I don't, but I probably need antibiotics, they say. Sigh.). Now my heart's racing like a rabbit and I want to cry, but I can't.

I was giving him subQ fluids, which he hates. Sometimes he struggles with me more than others, ( because I have to hold him down or else he'll bolt), but we've had worse nights than this one. God knows I've been scratched all to hell, but I take that as part of the deal. And recently, because he's really been resisting, I've made the executive decision to let him go and not force the proccess if he's really fighting. Consider it kitty hospice- I don't want to have the last few weeks, months, whatever of his life be so miserable because I'm prolonging it. He's old, he's sick, and I'm not gonna MAKE him stay alive just for me. Still, I make the effort because the effort is there to be made, and it makes him more comfortable physically when his kidneys aren't backing up toxins into his body.
But tonight he struggled for a bit, then sat there, THEN reached his head around and chomped down HARD on the base of my thumb, right there where it joins the fat part of my hand. And he wouldn't let go till I let go of him, which I was having a hard time doing, since I was trying to get his jaws unclenched. Finally I let him go, needle still in him, and he made a run for the bathroom door ( which is where we do this treatment). I had to quickly regain myself so I could pull the line out of his skin before he hurt himself trying to run away with it.

It took a good couple of minutes of my catching my breath on the bathroom floor before I could go find him. When I did, there he was in his Treat Spot ( he gets a treat every night after fluids, no matter how bad he's been, just for being brave).

Needless to say, he did NOT get a treat. He got a smack on the muzzle for biting mom and a stern admonishment to Not Ever Bite Mom. Which he KNOWS! I don't think he's ever REALLY bitten me. I mean, I've been nipped at, because, well, *sigh*. Griffy has always been a little hard to handle. He's got a very wild temperment, and always has. I have enough stories about things he's killed, tried to kill or hunt or capture or just DO in general to fill up a book. Corny enough, he's really wild at heart ( and not that terrible David Lynch movie). My old vet back in St. Louis who just loved him ( they always DO- he's so funny and handsome and has such a strong personality) still wouldn't ever give him shots or try to do any sort of procedures on him unless he was knocked out. SERIOUSLY. And these are trained professionals! The nurses loved him too, but flat out refused to handle him after a certain point unless he was at least sedated. Needless to say, my vet bills for even routine visits were never cheap.

But he's never been BAD. This was just plain Bad Cat Behavior. Or......SICK cat behavior? I don't know what to make of it. Except that he really, REALLY doesn't want fluids anymore.

Of course, to add to my injury, there had to guilt for a little insult. After I smacked him on the nose, he went to the living room and threw up EVERYWHERE. He must have been really upset by the whole thing. Sheesh. I felt like the biggest heel. Of course.

So, I bandaged myself up, cleaned up the carpet and found him hiding under my desk. I patted him on the head gingerly which he let me do ( he usually understands when he's in trouble, and when I'm coming to make peace). I said, "Buddy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're sick. I'm sorry I have to hold you down to give you medicine. I know you hate it. And I'm sorry I smacked you on the nose and upset you. But you can't bite mom. You just can't. From now on, though, I'll listen better when you tell me the first time you don't wanna sit for fluids. Okay?" And then I let him get up and pass me, which is our little sign of "it's okay". He stopped and wanted to be petted and I did.

I don't know where he is now, ( probably peeing on my shoes) but man, I don't know how to handle this. I mean, I can only do so little before it's a very quick slide downhill. And I want to do what's right, and what he wants, mediated with common sense. I just never thought it was going to have to be so hard.