Oliver Goes to the Emergency Vet

Saturday night, we ended up at the pet-ER with Oliver. Our first sign that something was amiss was when we came home from dinner with Jesse’s parents. It was around 7:30, and Oliver was not acting crazy. He’s usually fed around 5:00 p.m., so I expected him to be meowing at the door and running around when we came home. He was curled up under the piano. I had to ask him, “Are you hungry? Are you hungry?” to get him moving in the direction of the closet where we keep their food. Then, he didn’t finish his dinner. That was odd. But, we figured he was just reacting to having company.

When we went to go to bed around 11:00, though, we knew something was really wrong. He hissed and growled when Jesse picked him up to put him in the laundry room. That’s when Jesse found the lump, a golf ball-sized bulge on his chest. It was obviously causing him pain. I called the emergency vet, and they suggested we bring him in. By this time, it was about half-past 11:00, and the roads were pretty empty. I was exhausted already; the day before, I’d started feeling like I was coming down with something.

We waited at the emergency vet, half-watching an episode of “Mythbusters” on the waiting room TV. The light in the waiting room was a little dim, and it was black outside. Then, we were led back to an examination room with a metal table in the middle, and black dog hair on the brown tile floor. The vet tech who worked with us was very friendly, and remarkably awake for the hour. She was the perfect one to work at a place like this—calming, unflappable. She took him in the back to shave the area. We warned her about Oliver’s typical behavior at the vet. For vaccinations, he has to be muzzled, and they usually bring in two extra vet techs to hold him down.

When she came back from shaving him, she informed us that the mass was an abscess and needed to be drained. We nodded our approval, and she left again. Then, we heard a yowl and a hiss (think: jungle cat), and she came back and asked if they could sedate him, as “he’s not being, um, entirely cooperative.” We agreed this would be the best thing for everyone involved. After awhile, the vet came in and told us the abscess had been lanced, the “purulent material expressed” (i.e. “it was green”). Oliver would be waking up soon, and we could take him home.

A little bit later, we heard the jungle cat sounds again, and then someone came in to get his carrier. They brought him back, and he just looked at us, like how could you?

Nearly $300 later, we left and went home. It was after 2:00 a.m. We took him out of his carrier, had a bit of a scare with frothy spit coming out of his mouth (apparently the stuff they used to clean the wound was bitter and made him try to spit it out), and put a cone collar on him so he couldn’t lick the wound, which was at this time bloody and truly awful looking.

We kept him in the bathroom, and the only time we slept more than two hours at a time was between 2:30 and 4:30. That’s when I woke up, worried he might be thirsty, so we checked on him and tried to get him to drink some water (he wasn’t interested). Then, every time I fell asleep I’d dream about him. Then, I’d wake up and listen for him. I could hear him trying to get the collar off, and the scrape of the plastic against linoleum or the bathroom cabinets kept waking me up in the times when I hadn’t been asleep long enough to start another dream.

Finally, I woke up to light outside and voices in the kitchen. Jesse’s parents were up. I listened for Oliver. The cone sounds had stopped. In fact, it was perfectly silent in the bathroom. Why wasn’t he making noise? He could hear them in the other room. He had to know we were up (he can hear from the laundry room when we’re up, and he immediately starts to bang on the door to remind us to let him out right now). But, nothing. I shook Jesse awake.

We cracked open the bathroom door and poked our heads in, fearing the worst. And there was Oliver, sitting next to the cone, looking rather satisfied with himself.

Since then, we’ve managed to get the cone on more securely, and so far he hasn’t gotten it off again. We take it off so he can eat and drink, but he seems to have made his peace with the cone, though he hasn’t mastered walking with it and still bumps into things. It’s truly pathetic. The most surprising part is that he allows us to put the cone on without putting up a fight. He just stretches his neck out and waits patiently until we finish.

The whole ordeal was scary and exhausting and terrible. I know this is part of having a pet. I know he’s not going to live forever. But, I hate this part. I don’t see why he can’t live forever. I cannot imagine the house without him.

He likes to sleep on one of the chairs from the kitchen table, as he can lay down with his cone hanging off the edge. I move the chair from one window to the next, depending on where I am. I can’t wait for him to be fully recovered and back to his old antics. I won’t even mind if he gets into the pantry and steals the last of my sourdough…

Some pictures:

So handsome, even with a plastic cone around his neck.

Gracie can’t figure it out.