Cautiously Optimistic

It’s late on Friday night, and I’m wondering if my body has started to turn a corner. After a week taking steroids and antibiotics, I took the last of them this morning. The cough is nowhere near as bad as it has been, and I have been able to help out a little more with chores. Of course it would have helped if a certain cat hadn’t sent us all into panic stations this morning. While sitting on the edge of the bed, thinking through the need to eat something before ramming another handful of tablets into my mouth, my other half burst into the bedroom to tell me there was something wrong with the cat. I won’t go into too much detail - beyond the discovery of quiet a smelly mess in the upstairs bathroom, and sick under the dining table. It’s probably worth noting that this “many storied” cat of ours - “George” - has probably used up more than his quota of lives already. He was run over when he was young, and had his back-end and legs re-built - then a couple of years later he got a blockage that caused him to have all of his bits and pieces removed - turning him into neither a boy or girl. While going through that surgery a mistake was made that nearly killed him - requiring emergency surgery that wiped out his insurance, and all of our savings. I can still remember having the conversation with the children - should we have money in the bank, or should we save his life. Given his continued existence, you can guess what happened. We didn’t go on holiday that year. Anyway. I jumped in the shower and then had a shave (I looked like a caveman) while my other half searched for the local vet. She then left for work, called our youngest daughter (who started out towards home immediately), and I got us an appointment at the vet. I then climbed into the attic in search of the “pet carrier” (read: cage). Half an hour later I arrived at the vet carrying a rather grumpy ginger cat - yowling to anybody that would listen. After booking George in and confirming his name, address, age (15!) and bank details, we sat and waited. I love vet waiting rooms - you never know what you’re going to see. We saw a gangly boxer dog that (as my famous step-grandfather once told me) “didn’t know if it was having a shit or a haircut”. It noticed George after a few seconds and snuck towards the cage for a sniff. George moved with the speed of Zorro and clattered against the cage bars - causing the Boxer to reverse across the floor at speed and cower behind it’s owner’s legs - physically shaking - not taking it’s eyes off George the entire time. If not for the cage bars, I’m pretty sure George would have made a bit of a mess of the dog’s face before it knew much about it. A few minutes later we were beckoned in, whereupon our yowling, poorly, frightened cat put on the biggest charm offensive you’ve ever seen. The vet found NOTHING wrong with him. She weighed him, stuck a thermometer up his bum, injected him with something, and turned him this way and that - he put up with all of it, and sat on her table like some sort of stoic gollum - taking great interest in the hedgerow outside her window. He didn’t once flinch, complain, or react to anything she did. Even she was impressed. She was more impressed that a 15 year old cat was in such good condition. She obviously doesn’t realise how many staff he has, and quite what a charmed life he lives. So. We paid the requisite amount of money for the visit, and took him home again - then rang everybody to lower “panic stations” a bit before getting on with work, chores, and whatever else the day might throw at us. The good thing? I really do think I’m getting better (at last!). I just got off a livestream on YouTube - the first in perhaps 10 days - and made it through a couple of hours talking without coughing much at all. Fingers crossed.