Today I woke up with an ominous feeling. Something was…off. Strange. Wrong. But it's been an incredibly emotional week for me, with a lot of things happening that I never thought would happen, so waking up feeling weird was not exactly unexpected. Little did I know the ADVENTURE that lay before me.
Because, as you all know, nothing is ever without drama in the Banshee house.
The weird feeling escalated throughout the day, culminating in a quick drive (first time out of the house in two days, go me!) to the drug store to pick up a pack of smokes. It was drizzly and on the verge of snowing (that's called sleet, knuckleknob) so I was not pleased at all about driving, NO SIRREE.
Wait, let me explain. I have a lot of, shall we say, RULES about driving. They include, but are not limited to the following:
- no driving at night
- no driving in rain
- no driving in snow
- no driving outside of my town's limits in either direction
- no driving whenever I feel doomy
"Doomy" is a technical term I like to use when my brain decides that if I do something, and it could be anything from driving to the store to taking a shower, if I do that particular task, something catastrophic will happen, either to me or someone I love. If I call my mom and she doesn't pick up the phone? She's been in a car wreck. If I take a shower while it's raining? A lightning bolt will hit me.
In the bin, a therapist said "you must have a lot of power over the universe to affect that much stuff with your mere existence, eh?" To which, of course, I was mortified. So I was a NARCISSIST on top of everything else? Fantastic. I might as well walk into traffic. She, of course, assured me that this was not the case, and that narcissists rarely think they are a scourge to the planet, as I had described myself to her earlier.
I was very doomy today. Something TERRIBLE was going to happen. I shook like a leaf, despite two Klonopin, all the way to and from the store, and my pants kept falling down because I had grabbed the wrong jeans and THESE were the ones I've gotten too small for, and OOPS PANTS FALLING DOWN IN WALGREENS plus I was feeling doomy and wouldn't you smoke too, if that's what your brain was full of all the time? Falling-down pants and doom? So anyway, I bought my cigarettes and zoomed home, convinced the entire way that I was SOMEHOW going to drive into the oncoming lane and cause a fifty car pileup, which would have been impressive, given that I was driving on a small, local road.
When I got home without catastrophe, I got on the computer to check my responses to my Bachelor recap, and there were only two at the time. (Obviously, I am a failure as a writer) and my computer started making bizarre grinding noises reminiscent of a Stephen King story (explosion imminent) so now the Doomy Doom was GROWING and MULTIPLYING, so I quickly fell out of my too-big pants and pulled on my jimjams (much safer) and started inspecting the cats. Because if something hadn't happened to me, OBVIOUSLY something was happening to them.
First I started poking at Lulu, who was not happy at ALL about this little turn of events and hissed at me as I checked her from tip to toes to make sure no giant tumors had appeared in the 20 minutes I had been out. Then, satisfied that she was not currently on her deathbed, I searched out Stewie. And that's when it happened.
I saw Stewie's belly. Red! Inflamed! He had licked himself raw! Oh my goddy god, something was horrifically wrong with my cat. I poked his belly. HOT! His poor belly was hot! That means INFECTION! DISEASE! DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!! I started bawling and called my mommy.
No answer. (massive car wreck, heart attack, stroke, serial killer.)
I called my parents' house. No answer. (Fire, flood, carbon monoxide poisoning, bodies everywhere.)
I glared at Stewie, who stared back at me all "WHAT?" and went about his business as per usual, not acting sick or wounded or dying in the slightest. Which was why I never thought before the doomy had set in that anything was wrong, I mean, he was FINE other than his poor little belly, which one can't see usually anyway, so god KNOWS how long he had been walking around with this HORRIFIC FLESH EATING VIRUS AH MAH GAH I am the worst cat parent EVER.
How do people have children? My mind, she is boggled.
So I wander frantically around the apartment, following Stewie as he hung out being all normal and stuff, occasionally looking at me as if to say "What IS IT, you FREAKSHOW, stop STARING at me!" when the phone rang. It was my mom. I picked up the phone in near hysterics, yelling about red hot bellies and AMG call 911 my cat has Ebola.
Y'all? My poor mother had just come home from the doctor's. She was feeling lousy. I WAS NOT HELPING.
Through gritted teeth she told me that there was nothing she could do, she had just gotten home from the doc's and had to go to work, and why didn't I call my DEAR FRIEND DR.K, with whom I had gone to high school, and was, COINCIDENTALLY ENOUGH, a veterinarian.
Oh. I hadn't thought of that, what with all the doom clogging my brainpan.
So I call Dr. K. She, being the lovely and generous and fantastical person she is, said the symptoms I was screeching to her sounded like a little skin infection, Stewie would need an antibiotic and would I like to bring him in just so she could have a look? Would that make me feel better?
Dr. K is up for sainthood, if you haven't guessed by now.
"YES THAT WOULD BE GOOD" I wailed into the phone. I hung up and snatched Stewie up, crammed him in his carrier, and drove the approximately seven minutes to Dr.K's office. I was able to do this for three reasons:
- cat emergency trumps crazy brain
- Dr.K's office was in my town's borders
- and happened to be directly across from my old high school, so I knew the way like the back of my trembling hand
Stewie wailed the whole way. So did I.
Upon reaching Dr.K's, we exchanged hugs and she whisked Stewie into an exam room, where she very easily and nonchalantly said yes, it was a little skin infection, here are some antibiotics, if they make him puke, give him some yogurt and everything was going to be fine. I kept trying to "help" and Saint Dr.K had to gently but firmly remind the crazy lady that she is, in fact, a very good vet.
The whole thing took 15 minutes and we were on our way home. (obviously since we dodged that bullet, we were going to get into a massive car wreck.) Upon returning safely home, I braved jamming a pill down an 18 pound cat's throat (Saint Dr.K also suggested that it might be time for Stewie to go on a little DIET) and checked my messages.
There was a message.
But that story isn't ready to be told yet.