All who knows my cat knows that it is an unfriendly, hoity-toity pansy. Lovable, of course, but undoubtedly a pansy. He's like a spoilt little king with antisocial tendencies. A pet psychologist's dream client probably.
AS usual last night, I collected my little dog from the balcony. Before closing the door, I checked for signs of any feline form. I saw none (and no, my cat is not so small that I would miss it's huge, fat silhouette on my sparse, 2 feet by five feet balcony). So, I locked up as per usual.
This morning, I go downstairs to find the balcony covered in tufts of fur. Living with two dogs and a cat for quite some time now (11 years for the cat), I know enough to tell that it was definitely cat fur. Too fine to be a dog's unless it were a really, really pampered dog. I somehow doubt that dogs of any kind are capable of jumping up onto first floor balconies, however. Conclusion: CAT fur from some sort of tussle.
My initial reaction was something along the lines of, "Right, this is out of the norm." Went about feeding the dog, walked back in, saw the cat lazing on the floor as usual and fed him. No signs of anything. He then runs off to hide in some hidey-hole in the house.
I learned later that my mum found him outside on the balcony earlier that morning. She obviously blames me for locking him out, no matter how much I protested otherwise, and suspects my little, friendly if overly enthusiastic dog of fighting with my cat. I also protested to that little hypothesis, since: a) I could see no visible signs of injury on my cat, b)I definitely did not see any visible signs of injury on my dog, and c) my dog knows enough by now to stay away from the cat when he's not tolerant.
So, we went out and spent a couple of hours just doing the usual Sunday afternoon loafing. We came back, and I was about to open the grill door when I heard my cat screeching from the unoccupied maid's room. I'm obviously concerned. So back into the cage went the little dog and I went to check up on the cat. He limps out slowly and sits crookedly on the floor. We try to see what's wrong with his hind flank but he does the "hiss-stay-away" thing and we oblige. Even my mum got batted at. Conclusion: Something is really, really wrong with the cat. We call the usual vet, he doesn't pick up. So we end up running to our neighbour's house for help since she knows where the animal hospital is. We suspected a broken leg since we couldn't see any blood or external wounds. She brings us to the nearest doctor with an X-ray machine.
We wait for quite a while with the cat--who was a pain to carry without jostling--and finally we bring it to the doctor. Meet Dr. P and his witty remarks, newly introduced to Pet-Unfriendly. In the end, he had to sedate the cat just to touch the little, furry bugger. And after shaving off some fur, we found bite wounds on both sides of his hind flank. The little bugger really did get into a damn fight (dungu didn't learn from his first experience). And obviously came out worse for wear. Ah, my sweet Koko was vindicated! Ah, the cat didn't have any broken bones! Ah, what a relief after all that worrying. Ah... what a freaking pain in the arse.
So, here I am, waiting for 5.30pm to come around. We're going to have to collect the little blighter and see how things go. Talk about unnecessary complications.
This tallies up seven days of shoddy events making my week an official Hell-worthy one. And to think, I had actually dared to hope for a peaceful Sunday. Piss...
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Thanks to Aunt A for the help and the cat carrier. Oh, and the Dr. P too, of course.
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