09 December 2010
Last week our little grey cat, Henry, (the one who gets on counters, opens cabinets, tears into bread bags and cracker boxes, knocks things off tables and counters, and generally wreaks havoc on our home) burnt his paws on our wood stove.
We didn't see it happen. It was probably during one of the nights when he and his partner-in-crime were locked in the basement so we could sleep more than 4 hours at a stretch. I was actually surprised it was him, because of the three cats, Henry is by far the smartest, if not the most trouble.
Clearly, he had leapt onto the stove and then probably right off again. The two paws on his left side were the worst and when he walked he often held up his front left paw. It was very sad. The vet gave him an antibiotic injection and told us the paws would heal up on their own. And they are well on their way. After several days of lethargy, he is now running around, playing, and generally terrorizing the house once again.
It was a week ago today that we went to the vet.
Late last night I noticed that our big orange cat, Jack, (the other boy cat) was limping. And when I checked, sure enough, his paws are now burnt as well. This doesn't surprise me. When God passed out cat brains, this cat was not in line. He is the sweetest, most good natured animal I've ever encountered, but he is sorely lacking in the intelligence department.
So back to the vet we go. Thankfully, I am not working today. That was not the original plan, but due to other unforeseen circumstances, I won't be working again until next week... but that is a story for another post and another time.
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In other news, it is 12 degrees outside. Winter has not only arrived early, it has dug in its claws and seems to be here to stay.
Copyright © 2010 - Paulla Estes