Words and Numbers 58/ 24 Hour Bug, Cat Farts and Me
Posted on May 4, 2012
Wednesday was a potential bummer from the start. I had to be at the dentist at 8am and I was running late. Grabbed a glass of juice and the mid-week grocery list. Ten minutes at the dentist, stitches out and reminded of the next appointment. Stop&Shop was nearly deserted and I made short work of picking up supplies to cover dinner for the rest of the week. Noticed a little unease, you know that head-in a-fishbowl feeling. Got home, put away groceries and took a nap to make up for the hour I missed. Ate lunch and watched the noon news. Feeling a bit queasy. No sweat, probably just a passsing cold. Blogging, checking email and getting that body feeling that’s somewhere between needles and pins and a mild muscle ache. Crashed, something I avoid. I might miss an afternoon ballgame. When I woke up, did crosswords and puzzles. Too late to prep for fried chicken. Noodles and veggies for supper. Supper came and went. During Jeopardy my body began to betray me. A quick jaunt to the loo. Not good. Another trip, getting worse. I ache and feel like some alien being has encased me in a water-filled specimen tank. Sophie needs to be fed. Bought new cat food, it was on special and she really isn’t that finickey. I’m on the couch, halfway between horizontal and verticle. I’ve got the full-blown runs. I develop a stealthy, non-jarring walk to make the trips reasonably safe.
It’s one am. Still haven’t slept. Sophie has decided to use my stomach as a landing zone when she jumps onto my bed. The trips to the WC have slowed to every half hour and not as violent. About five I fell asleep. Forgot to shut off the alarm, so seven thirty came as a surprise. Fed the cat. Stomach has quieted down but not taking any chances. Do I call the doctor? Nope. As soon as I hang up the phone everything will go away and when I talk to her I’ll come across as a hypochondriac. She’s got doubts about me as it is. I feel comfortable enough to lay down on the couch and watch cable shows. Sophie climbs onto the couch and tries to insinuate herself as closely as possible. She stands near my face, wiggling her butt. She finally settles in. About fifteen minutes in she starts to fidget. I try to dislodge her but no go. Then it happened. Revenge for buying on-sale cat food. A noxious discharge. On a scale of one to ten, ten being popcorn and roses and one being “What crawled up your ass and died?” This was a minus five. My eyes dried out and tear ducts were working overtime. I’ve smelled some gross things (see scrod packed in the back of a walk in fridge for six weeks). This was beyond disgusting. I was afraid to open my mouth lest I taste it (again see over-cooked cold liver). Sophie on her part looked calmly at me and resumed her nap. The malodor clung to the drapes and I had to open windows to get some fresh air in circulation. Hours later, there was a faint wisp of cheap cat food lingering. Sent my brother-in-law to the Quicki Mart to ransom a box of Sophie’s favorite. I’m saving the cheap stuff. When I’ve got a day away from home, I’ll fill her dish and let her deal with the discharge.
On the upside, the cat farts seemed to have a curative effect. After the gas attack, the genral malaise disappeared. Maybe cat farts are the cure for the common cold. Nah, they’re just revenge of the kitty. It’s worse than trashing piles of paperwork waiting to be sorted. And it’s not as bad, aurally, as a hairball attack. Got to clean up a small pile of used cat food Sophie has left on the carpet.