On Tuesday I took Lyndie to the vet. We were in the waiting room for a very long time--evidently, more than enough time for Lyndie to pee all over herself in her carrier. She never does that, so I take that as proof that she really is sick.
She hates going to the vet anyway. The last time I took her, she was hissing and clawing so much that they wrapped her body in a towel. But that didn't hold her back; she actually clawed RIGHT THROUGH the towel and embarrassed me.
This time, after the vet's assistant saw us, we had to wait again in the examining room. I let Lyndie poke around, since she was so freaked out, and she crawled under the folding chairs and hunkered down in a corner. When the vet came in, she couldn't get a good hold on the cat ("She doesn't have any scruff!" she kept saying), and of course Lyndie was not cooperating at all. She is not a cuddler anyway, and she doesn't like strangers (or, indeed, anybody).
Finally, the vet had to bring out these giant gloves--they looked like something you would wear if you were a logger, or if you were going to pull some plutonium out of a nuclear reactor. I am pleased to announce that Lyndie did NOT claw these gloves to ribbons, although it was a little iffy there for a while.
She peed on the examining table; that was a good sign, according to the vet, since it meant she doesn't have any blockages. However, since she'd already emptied her bladder, there was no way to gather a urine sample. There was talk of her staying overnight, and I wasn't too keen on that idea at all. Fortunately, the enterprising vet used some syringes to pull urine up off the examining table, and there was no more talk of sleepovers.
Lyndie has a urinary tract infection, which I diagnosed thanks to Google (I WIN!), and she's taking medication now to try to get rid of it. And by "taking medication," I definitely mean that I am crunching up her pills and mixing it in with her food, and then she is nibbling around the edges and avoiding the medicine altogether. If I had those giant gloves, I'd try stuffing it in her mouth but, as it happens, I actually LIKE wearing my skin all in one piece, so we'll see how that goes.
The whole thing cost over a hundred dollars, and further tests (if needed) could cost two hundred or more. My dad and I discussed this briefly in the waiting room.
"This could wind up costing big bucks, you know," he said to me.
"It doesn't matter," I replied, and that's true. I'd go into debt for that cat without thinking twice.
In return, she will most likely vomit on my pillow and leave a hairball in my shoe, just to show her gratitude.