It had been one of those days when afternoon, evening and night flowed into each other so smoothly you don’t realize until the end that if you had drunk a little less and eaten a little more you would be feeling a lot better.
We walked home from Barceloneta at around 12 pm. Before we could get the front door open, our neighbor popped her head out. In our slightly fuddly state we understood that our cat had somehow escaped. One anxious run up the stairs (5 flights) and one quick and noisy check of the house later I realized that we were indeed missing one cat. By the time I got down, T had gotten a veterinary address off our neighbor and we walked along to claim our cat.
Sadly once we roused the on call vet, he started speaking of worse things. Broken hip bone, possible internal damage…. those horrible words which only belong in TV land. Our little cat hadn’t run down the stairs, she had fallen off the balcony. Gone was the arrogant fearless spider cat, and in her place was a broken scared little cat. After much discussion with the vet we decided to run some tests to determine exactly how bad the damage was and come back the next day.
I felt sick! We returned to the reception area and filled in the form for the cat. I had just managed to remember my NIE number before a wave of blehness engulfed me. My blood sugar level plummeted and so did I.
Back outside the clinic I asked T if I had freaked the vet out too much when I passed out. He reassured me it wasn’t the passing out which freaked him out so much as the unconscious giggling after my head hit the floor. Poor vet.
Poor spider cat.