I have three cats. The youngest and smallest and most friendly is Potter. Also known as Mr. Potts, he's fluffy and black with yellow eyes. I'd put a picture of him in this blog but, to be honest, he looks exactly like about a million other fluffy black cats you've seen.
Unlike my older two cats, who were adopted from shelters and have remained skittish throughout their lives, Potter has always been more social and more willing to spend time with people who come over and visit. He's been active and he loves to cuddle in my left armpit as I sleep.
Thursday night Mr. Potts howled and hissed. I wandered into my bedroom, expecting him to be wrestling with Truman. He was, oddly enough, lying on my bed. I petted him and he rolled over oddly. I chalked it up to the cat nip I'd put around the scratching boxes earlier that day.
His odd behavior continued after I got back from my LQA crawl that night. He was hanging out on the back of my closet, as if hiding, when I got home. I was confused so I pulled him out and made sure he had food, etc.
I woke up the next morning and couldn't locate him. He'd decided to find the cat carrier, which was 3/4 buried under clothes. He'd found the most reclusive spot in my apartment. Throughout Friday he was lethargic and I took one opportunity to prod him: poking at his ears and his face and his paws and his stomach, trying to figure out if he got cut or what the fuck was happening. His stomach felt a bit distended and he wasn't happy when I approached his butt region, so after a bit of online sleuthing I diagnosed him with constipation... which I read can be caused by hairballs and can be bad because they can cause impaction and death within days if untreated.
So Saturday morning I brought Potter to the vet. I talked to them and it was decided Potter needed x-rays to confirm the constipation, and if that's what it was they would perform an enema.
I was proven right. The film showed he was constipated, but the vet promised to send it to a specialist to ensure there was nothing else wrong with him. The vet also thought blood work would be a good idea, but I had to draw the line there, knowing that if blood work showed up something bad I probably couldn't afford to do anything about it, anyway.
We came home (Potter and I... not the vet and I, although she was pretty cute) and I started feeding him the pumpkin stuff to act as a laxative. After he used the kitty box on Saturday I thought we were all set.
Unfortunately, he didn't use it again on Sunday. And, last night, I gave him a lift onto the bed at about 9:30 PM and he was there until... oh, until about 10 minutes before I started this blog.
Now... I'm no expert, but 23+ hours without moving very much isn't a good sign. Unless it's me and it's fueled by laziness.
Throughout today I brought him his pumpkin stuff. I brought him food.
I also heard from the vet, and the specialist said that Potter (a) had a hernia causing a slipped disc, and (b) probably has kidney damage.
Ugh.
So I'm getting medicine for him tomorrow to deal with the hernia. I am again probably going to decline blood work.
As Mr. Potts wasn't moving, though, I brought him dinner and water in bed. I was watching the end of the Blazers game and I thought that I should give him a chance to use the litter box. I came into the bedroom and Potter had ... moved! From the foot of the bed to near the pillows.
"Wow," I thought, "maybe he's feeling better".
Then I looked closer. He had spilled the water, soaking the sheets where he had been lying (through the comforter and down to the mattress pad, of course) which prompted him to drag himself up to the head of the bed.
I removed the bedding, brought him to the kitty box, and he actually used it. As sad as the whole thing is, it's an improvement over last night... last night, before I brought him to the bed, he had reacted oddly after I'd placed him in the litter box: he had laid down. In the litter. Even given it was clean litter... that's fucked up.
We'll see how the medicine helps him. We'll see if he's on a downward spiral or if he can bounce back and be around to greet my visitors for a few more years.
Poor Mr. Potts.
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