Torvald loves nothing more than a good dangle.
He spent a bit of the morning dangling from my printer; for variation, he’s out on the porch now, dangling his hind legs off the U-shaped cat tree. He doesn’t really fit entirely on anything, I suppose.
I give him license to dangle from the printer or wherever he wants, for the moment. After his last gritty vet episode he got on for a couple weeks with no obvious signs of distress, so I expected his follow-up appointment — a lab test and another expensive ultrasound — to come up more or less clear. Which it did; the ugly glob that the first ultrasound showed in his bladder was gone, leaving only a scattering of debris. Only an hour after I got him home, he started squatting in all the laundry baskets and peeing blood again.
The vet admitted it was probably the stress of the visit. That didn’t stop the practice from charging me $30 for another round of anti-inflammatories. Business is business. And people ask me why I avoid doctors. Human doctors are not one-tenth as nice or conscientious as my vets, and here we still are.
He seems better today, with one dose of the drug to go. That means only one more episode of rolling him into a Purrito ™ and forcing a pill between the fangs that tried to tear off my face.
And I still love the little bastard.