My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [88]
“You’d prefer I start crying again?” I challenge.169
“No, no, certainly, let’s collect our precious kittens and go home. Maybe we’ll find some stray dogs on the way and bring them, too.” The thing is, he argues, but if he didn’t want to be here, too, even a little bit, he’d never have agreed to this.
Fletch bends down and places his hand in the condo to retrieve the first kitten. I can’t wait to get a closer look at them! They seem so tiny and perfect, cuddled together. One’s all gray and white and extra fuzzy, one’s sleek and small with black tiger stripes on slate-colored fur, and one’s a blend of stone and tan colors, spots and stripes. Their eyes are huge in shades of blue and green, taking up most of their tiny faces. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything cuter or sweeter or . . .
“AAAHHHH! I’m bitten! One of them bit me! Look at this—blood!” Fletch shouts.
“What? That can’t be,” I say. “Their teeth are tiny.”
“Their teeth are tiny razors,” he snaps.
“Try it again,” Gina suggests. “Go in more slowly this time. You probably just scared them.”
Resigned, Fletch takes a deep breath and slowly lowers his hand back into the condo. He lingers with his arm in for a second before yanking it out and flailing backward. “OW! Jesus Christ, ow! They’re like piranha in there, a carrier full of fucking piranha! They just tore the shit out of my hand.” Fletch holds up the bloody stump attached to his wrist.
“Oh, no!” Gina exclaims. “I have rubbing alcohol; we can put it on your cuts.”
“Yes, because THAT will stop the rabies,” Fletch responds drily.
At this point, Gina finds a gardening glove that barely fits over his fingers. We try to help him retrieve the kittens, but it’s kind of impossible, considering how hard she and I are laughing.
Every time Fletch thrusts his hand in to grab one, a different kitten attacks. At some point, one of the kittens begins to panic and sprays diarrhea, and then Fletch has to navigate through that, too. He shoots me the world’s dirtiest look, to which I reply, “Hey, I can cry again,” and he continues his mission.
We finally get them all gathered up, and while Fletch gets a bleach-and-antiseptic bath from the elbows down, I eat some pound cake. (It’s delicious!)
As we drive back up the expressway, I feel hopeful.
I figure nothing that starts out this bad can end any worse.
Gina had never gotten a real look at the little guys, and when we finally do see them up close, we notice they’re in rough shape. Sneezy, rheumy, wheezy, itchy, and one of them has what appears to be a giant pink balloon attached to his butt.
This can’t be good.
I bring them to our cat vet first thing in the morning. Turns out the poor little guys wouldn’t have made it for more than another day or two. They have eye infections, upper respiratory infections, dehydration, ear mites, and fleas. Ten percent of their body weight is worms. And one of them has a prolapsed rectum, which essentially means the little guy had such bad diarrhea that he blew out his o-ring.
Fortunately for Fletch, they don’t have rabies, nor do they have any of the fatal cat diseases, so we authorize treatment, thus incurring the first pet surgery to repair Thundercat One’s bunghole.
There’s an issue with Thundercat Two’s eye and we’re referred to a feline ophthalmology clinic.
Nope, I didn’t know such a thing existed, either.
I find out that Thundercat Two needs to have his third eyelid sewn over the eye if there’s any chance he’ll able to keep the eye. I confirm that even with one eye Thundercat Two will have an excellent quality of life, so I sanction the surgery and name him Odin.170
Thundercat Three makes a complete recovery. There’s nothing additional wrong with him, except that he’s an asshole. He’s such a jerk that the vet’s office has to spend the whole week weighing him in a trash can. The nurse tells me she holds him up in the window of his incubator so everyone can get a glimpse of his “mean face” whenever the staff needs a lift.
Naturally, we name him Chuck Norris.