The Great Deball-cle

Yesterday was the day that Merv became spherically challenged.

 

Early in the morning we drove to what I thought was the Humane Society place. It was the OLD Humane Society place. Luckily, I had allowed extra time because the old place was at the end of an almost-unpaved street, in the bowels of a step-up-from-the-slum area of lovely downtown Bumfuck. As I approached the dead end that was this atrocity I kept thinking “Gee, maybe this is why people buy guns.”

 

When I noticed the bright yellow peeling paint on and off the building, broken out windows, insulation flapping in the humid air and liquor bottles decorating the parking lot I thought “Hmm. Maybe I should have bought a gun.”

 

Yay for cell phones and for me keeping paperwork with telephone numbers on it. The new Humane Society place was over on the other side of Bumfuck, the newer safery looking side, mixed in with the public works department and close to the regional hospital. Just in case you need care while your pet is getting snipped.

 

We raced over there and were still early. I raced—Merv was pouting in his carrier, not mewing or purring or squeaking. He just looked morose and resigned and knew I was taking him somewhere bad, bitch that I am.

 

We were first in line, ahead of a perky little puppy and another perky littler puppy. The one sweet lady who initially helped us had one tooth on her top gums. One. It fascinated me, though not enough to disspell the irritation I felt when they told me the doc hadn’t phoned in yet. What? What? WHAT?!? I’m required to make this appointment two months in advance and the doctor may or may not show up?

 

“We’ll call you by 10 to let you know if the doctor shows, but leave Merv here just in case.”

 

So, I left Merv there, just in case, and drove back to work and felt quite nervous. It would be like Mr. Froth throwing me out the car door into the hospital, wishing me good luck and I hope you find a physician. Shit.

 

It’s all good. I called at 9:47 AM to see if maybe, perhaps, hopefully, someone had rounded up a vet. They had. Not the one who was supposed to be there, but another kind doc who offered to rearrange her schedule and get there by 2 PM.

 

What? What? WHAT?!?!?

 

“Don’t worry. You can call at 3:30 and he should be ready to go home at 4.”

 

I did not call at 3:30. I just went up there at 3:30 and do you know what? Merv was awake, de-bitted and loopy and drugged out like you wouldn’t believe. He had walleyes and his face was scrunched and bloaty looking like after a really bad night.

 

Since he was supposed to lie low and veg for a bit, after we got home I kept him in the carrier, but eventually placed him on the floor, opened the door and thought he’d maybe ooze out and crash. He bounded out of the carrier and LURVED the carpet. Just got all kinds of happy with the carpet. And then LURVED my hand, which progressed to clutching, scratching and biting my hand and performing a half-summersault, which bounced his body and bitless parts all around. That wasn’t good from what I could see. He was supposed to be calm in order to heal and like that. I sensed a certain targeted animosity expressing itself via little fuzzy paws, stoned as they were.

 

I guess the vet techs failed to show Merv the memo about feeling punky and weak after surgery and that you’re supposed to loll about and rest.

 

He was a holy terror all night. Just freaking flipped out. He ate two plates of food and attacked the usual complement of bugs. He kinda missed when he jumped to the counter and I winced at that. While I sat on the floor petting the Beebs, watching tv and trying to pet him, Merv punctured at least three of my veins and my right arm looks like a paper tree.

 

If you’ve never seen a paper tree it has bark that hangs off it in little shreds. Like paper. Or skin sliced by kitteh-claws.

 

The lackage of package hasn’t slowed him down.

 

Today he’s peachy. Just deflated, if you get my drift. Amazing. And I hope has forgotten the fact that I took him to the doc yesterday. I need my blood.