Fleas à volonté

You may remember Roger, my super intelligent feline.

In the past few months he’s grown lethargic, his belly’s been hard and he’s been less social. Since he’s been through so much in his feline life and since he’s clearly older than his 10 years and because he’s so fragile, we’ve avoided bringing him to the vet out for fear of the act-that-shall-not-be-named. A couple of weeks ago, Roger began self-mutilating again. It started when he licked his back raw. I immediately broke out the kitty Prozac which seemed to help for a couple days. Then, last Thursday I came home from work and the raw spot had turned into a bloody spot. At this point, Roger was also spending his days sleeping on a cardboard box, crammed between the closet and bikes (probably to avoid Suzanne). I immediately called the vet for an appointment on Saturday morning.

So Saturday morning, we loaded Roger into the cage (as Leon coward near by fearing for his own 9 lives). Jerome stayed at home working on the plans for the house while Suzanne took a nap. Jerome looked deeply into Roger’s eyes not stating the obvious.

I got in the car for the 5 minute drive to the vet’s which turned into 20 grueling minutes behind a garbage truck. As Roger expressed his angst and fear, I spoke softly to him telling him what a nice boy he is and how much we need him. He finally seemed to resign himself to the car and the cage and the unspeakable acts that awaited him.

At the vets, the secretary told me to sit in the waiting room. She then called to me and asked if this is Roger or Leon. Roger, I say which made everyone laugh for some reason. The vet then came out, pulled up Roger’s file on the computer and asked why Roger was there : raw spot, stomach problems and general anxiety.

We get into the vet’s office and he asks me to take Roger out of the cage. I tell the vet that I’m scared since Roger is very smart and gets aggressive. I don’t want him to be tranquilized so I slowly take the top off the cage and scratch his little head. For some reason, Roger is docile and lets the vet prod his stomach without a whimper or even a drop of drool. The vet asks if he’d eaten. Well, I say, only the tuna he had with his kitty Prozac. In that case, he needs to come back for blood tests but his stomach seems fine; it’s probably just fat. I mention the other cat who’s even bigger. Do you feed them à volonté (all you can eat) he asks? I tell him no, that in fact they don’t eat much at all. Oh, well they are castrated he says.

He then looks at Roger’s raw spot. I explain that he’s been acting weird and self-mutilating and that the kitty prozac doesn’t seem to be working. He asks if he has fleas. Well, no I say, the other cat’s not scratching. He lifts up Roger’s fur and shows me flea dust (ie flea shit). I suddenly feel like a terrible mother.

Relieved and embarrassed, I call Jerome and tell him the good news: Roger’s just fat and has fleas.

The moral of the story: before calling a man useless, make sure he isn’t castrated or simply an overweight fleabag.