Monday, 10 May 2004 | Cat Scratch Fever

I sat her on a pillow on my lap, pulled up the scruff of her neck, and pierced her skin with a tiny disposable needle. Sometimes that goes smoothly; sometimes she lets out a short, sharp cry. This morning she politely let me know that the needle felt more like a dagger, so I got a fresh one and tried again. Afterward, I fed her extra wet food—her favorite—because I knew she wouldn't have the chance to eat again until I got home from work.

I guiltily packed her, purring, in her new soft carrier, which I bought because of our now-frequent trips to the vet. The old carrier had no shoulder strap, and its metal handle cut into my hand when her 11-pound body was sitting inside. Trips to the vet can make you miss having a car.

The office is about a 15-minute walk away, and is in a small cube of a building. There are three vets there, one of whom I actually like. The other two, who are married, seem preoccupied and sloppy; all three contradict each other.

Vet I says that I should hope that Jane has Cat Scratch Fever, because CSF, which is curable, can affect her blood sugar. In essence, she said that CSF can, in a backward way, cure my cat of diabetes.

Vet II forgot to give her the CSF test today, even though I mentioned it three times this morning. Last week, when I called to get the results of Jane's blood test, he read me the profile of another cat, until I noticed it didn't make sense. He never mentioned that I shouldn't have given her anything to eat this morning; it occurred to me after I'd gone to work that it might be a problem, so I called to ask. He's also told me that I should only feed her diabetic wet food—in heaping once-a-day portions, even—because she needs to lose weight.

Vet III says that Cat Scratch Fever has absolutely no connection to diabetes. He also pledges that Jane should only be eating diabetic dry food, because it's less fattening than the wet food. He is the vet whom I trust (and like) the most, but what do I know?

She now has two fewer teeth, a little less blood, and a system full of drugs. When I first brought her home, she had wild, deranged energy. She desperately wanted to move around, but when I took her out of her carrier, her legs folded beneath her. Besides, trustworthy Vet III had told me to confine her for three hours or so, while the loopiness wore off.

Her pupils were big and excited, and she pushed her head against the side of the carrier, popping her claws in the net. She was determined but quiet, and didn't seem to notice me like she normally does. We took a nap—her, in her carrier, and me, curled around it. I had to pull the covers over both of us (the method used with parrots) to get her to relax a little.

Since then, she's eaten, fallen in the litter box in her own urine, gotten something uncomfortable in her eye (it's watery and half-shut), taken a bath, and started responding to me. When I first let her out of her carrier, she walked all over the apartment for a couple hours—legs giving out like a baby's—before finally settling down in a tight, exhausted circle. She doesn't even seem to notice the rare thunderstorm breaking open outside.