Doctors and Vets

I spent far too much of today in either the vet's office or the doctor's office. That always makes me feel a little cheated; like the universe owes me a couple extra hours at the end of the day.

Sadly, though, as this has not been proffered, I shall have to console myself with a Weight Watchers Big! Cookies and Cream Ice Cream Bar, my flicker of light, my solitary solace, in an otherwise drab dietary existence.

The vet trip was for my cat Patsy; she's got some sort of bone chip in her right elbow. Trouble is, though she's in pretty good shape, she is 15 years old, and it might not be such a great idea to put her through all that anesthesia and such. But, she was really limping, so we were going to do it today...and then, my vet got a little concerned that the bone fragment might be in a more complicated place than he thought, so he decided not to do it after all. Now, we're waiting for the opinion of the $pecialist, from down in South Austin - from the clinic that I know all too well, from trying to clear up all of Molly's various ailments a year or so ago.

Thus, we wait. I have to admit, though, after losing two cats in a month, and having one divorce us, I'm inclined to pamper the two we have left.

(Oh, I didn't tell you, besides Molly, we lost our little stray, Simon, who had feline leukemia. And, when I say "stray," I mean it in the sense that he lived with us for 10 years. In our garage, but still. And, I also didn't tell you that our cat Hank, who has lived WITH us for 14 years, decided that the addition of the new cat and the goddamn dog was the straw that broke the camel's back, and she has RUN AWAY, to live on the front porch of our neighbors TWO DOORS DOWN. Seriously, we cannot catch her; we've tried a dozen times. We're still buying her food, though, and bringing it down to the people that live there. They can't stop feeding her, or she will NOT SHUT UP. I know they're not lying, either, because she is annoyingly loud. And an ungrateful little shit, to boot.)

For my own self, I spent a lot of the afternoon at the orthopedist, wherein I was investigating some long-ignored pain in my left ankle and right wrist. The ankle might be some cartilage breaking down; I had the same thing in my other ankle a few years back, and had surgery to clean it all out. So, there'll perhaps be some upcoming crutchy Vicodiny joy; stay tuned.

The wrist, I was sure it was carpal tunnel. Dr. Stoic McSerious concurred, and he sent in his tech to do a nerve test for CT. Now, people, have you seen these things? They're like stickers with electrodes in them, hooked up to both a little electronic controller and your wrist and fingers. When the guy starts the little test, electronic pulses go up and down your wrist, and it gives you little shocks that make your fingers involuntarily curl up. It is freaky-deaky, friends, and while not painful per se, is not really super-pleasant.

The upshot is - not CT, or not yet, anyway; I don't have nerve damage yet, so we're not to the point of surgery. (Or drugs. Crap. I just get stupid occupational therapy and a wrist brace.) But, hey, leave it to The Man to point out the bright side - "Hey, good thing it's not your really, um, important hand."
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On that crass note, I read in the comments on Karla's blog that her brother has invented a holiday for men called "Steak and B.J. Day." It falls on March 14, exactly one month after Valentine's Day.

The Man is perplexed: WHY has this holiday not been thought of already, and ARE YOU ALL WITH HIM to start a NATIONAL MOVEMENT?