Poor Puss 😦
Back in the attic
Brave little cat
I’ve mentioned Puss-Puss here before. She’s my father’s cat, but she’s lived with Piglet and me for the last couple of years.
A week and a half ago Puss was quite badly attacked outside by a brutal local cat. I had to take her to the vet on Bank Holiday Monday morning, but she seems to have been going downhill since then rather than recovering. She seems to have lost her confidence, and has spent most of her time hiding in a box in my bedroom, at the top of the house, which isn’t like her at all. She’s had a temperature and has eaten barely enough to keep a sparrow in flight, and this morning I rang to ask whether I could take her in for the third time to see if the vet could find something physically wrong.
When I went upstairs to collect her I found a nasty wet mess over one of her eyes, and concluded that an abscess must have burst. I shot her across to the local vet, and even he looked aghast when we got her out of the cat basket and he saw the green, pussy blood-streaked gunk oozing from above her eye 😦
Anyway, stuff like that is better out than in, and so he took her away to squeeze out as much toxic goo as possible and gave Puss back to me with instructions to bathe the wound in order to prevent a scab from forming, and to take her back for a further inspection next Monday.
We’re now home. Puss is clearly feeling better-she’s eaten some chicken and had a glass of water–but it’s horrible trying to track her round the house 😦 There’s a bloody, green gooey deposit all over her little white bib, which I’ve been trying to snip off with a small pair of scissors, and Puss is stalking round the house dropping nastily bodily fluids all over the place as I pursue her with gauze and a bowl of salty water, while Piglet trails along in my wake hoping the bowl holds something yummy that she might be invited to eat when the cat has finished with it. Meanwhile it’s pouring with rain outside, so the carpet is covered with muddy shoe and paw prints that I haven’t yet had time to mop up, and there’s absolutely no prospect of being able to get any towels dry.
Just as I was trying to trap Pussling in a corner of the kitchen to start wiping her dry there was a knock at the door, and one of my neighbours appeared. I look a bit of a sight myself this morning, since I had a small mole scraped off my forehead the day before yesterday and it’s left a surprisingly large triangular, angry-looking scab that makes me look as though I’ve been in a fight with a rottweiler. I was told not to take a shower for two days (so as not to get it wet), and so those parts of my hair which aren’t plastered to my head are sticking up in scruffy little tufts.
With my hands full of gauze, scissors and bowls of salt water, and a hint of panic in my eye, I must have been an alarming sight, and I’m pretty sure I saw my elderly neighbour take a step backwards when I approached her at the door. I didn’t really get a chance to explain my appearance, but I led Jean through the muddy sitting room to the kitchen in order to display the cat, who was by then skulking in a corner and looking like something sailers had dragged down from the deck of a gun ship to a Naval surgeon during a particularly bloody battle set in the Napoleonic wars. Jean left quickly afterwards.
There’s much to be said for having moved to a very small house in the country, but at times like this I miss my large kitchen with a shutable door and an easily cleanable floor.