In the midst of my morning ritual that consists of feeding the 47 strays that show up on the catio and then attending to The Kitteh I discovered she had not eaten the food from last night. This may not sound like cause for immediate and frantic alarm to y'all, but that is because you haven't met Sheba. She lives for exactly 3 things. Food, thwacking me on the face at 6 am, and Food. It was about this time that I realized this morning had been absent the face thwacking and my alarm grew exponentially. I mean she had slept in the bed with us, gotten her usual nuzzlings last night...but something was wrong.
I found her under the bed, lured her out with some catnip, and then the smell hit me. Have you ever smelled a ruptured oozing gland? Did I just totally gross you out? Welcome to my day.
I called the vet while driving to his office and tried to sound like I am familiar enough with cats to lend credence to the fact that I've shared life with one for 7 years, but I'm pretty sure that was a giant FAIL. Doc Robert's receptionist was kind and spoke in a gentle but firm voice. Right about the time she was saying "you should bring her in" I walked through the door.
I'm going to spare you further details. Except that it was gross. ReallyReallyREALLY. G-r-o-s-s. And heartbreaking. Which brings me to the point of telling you all this.
My Sheba just underwent surgery. GLANDULAR surgery. On her GLANDS. Which completes the trifecta of every female living in my house now having had major GLANDULAR issues. Do you hear me, GLANDS? We've each now donated to your GLANDY cause~Enough Already.
Doc says her prognosis is fair. That she will be more comfortable at home, and that I can come pick her up at 4. That she needs to come back each of the next few days for an antibiotic shot and to gauge her progress....before we can determine anything with certainty.
Say a prayer for my girl, won't you please? And if you don't mind...say one for me, too.