worse cat story

I had to take Simon to the Animal ER on Monday because he fell on the floor and started shrieking in pain. I usually get a grumpy "mrrwrrr" out of him, but never screaming.

So I took him to the ER, was told something was wrong with his hips, probably wrenched them jumping down from something, and I have to keep him quiet for the rest of the week and if he didn't improve by tonight I'd have to schedule him for X-rays.

Fortunately the meds they gave me to administer to him seem to be working, although I can't imagine he's happy about being locked in my bedroom while I'm at work (with litterbox and water dish, of course). He never holds a grudge, though, the darling.

The only last concern, besides of course "will he heal?" is his excretory system(s). I am again the Monitor of Cat Waste, checking his litterbox obsessively and panning through the litter looking for little nuggets or large clumps that will tell me he's going to be all right. Because if something's wrong with his hips, it's hard for him to, well, squat to get the job done. And he's had urinary blockage before (although they did a partial urinalysis at the ER and said everything looked just fine).

But on the whole he seems to be feeling well and full of his usual vinegar and demands for food.

I hate when something's wrong with him. He's currently my only Life Companion, and he fills my whole day with such indescribable joy. Like when he picks the one spot on the bed that it's most awkward to bend my body around, but no matter how much I shift around or shove my legs under him, he won't move; or when I wake up periodically throughout the night to find him working his way up the bed bit by bit, snuggling down close against my calf or knee or thigh or hip (when he used to HATE close contact with anybody); or when I first hit the alarm and fall back asleep and he knows I'm not getting up, but as soon as my eyes open for real, he's walking all over me, shoving his head in my face, purring so loud I can hear it through the earplugs; or when he tentatively steps onto my lap while I watch TV and, looking like a fish out of water, hunkers down and starts to purr, because he wants to be nearby; or when he thinks he deserves food and I walk right past him and he gets mad and swats my ankles; or when he finds me out of his sight and yowls to know where I am; or when he ambushes me from behind the chair and I KNOW IT'S COMING but he scares the crap out of me anyway, and I shriek, and he struts away all proud of himself with his tail waving, and flops down on the ground to look up at me and his eyes are saying, "See how cute and clever I am?"

Or when he's perfectly happy, and stretches his whole length as far out and back as it will go, and he looks like a big black hairy piece of elbow macaroni, which earned him the nickname Noodle.

Or when he follows me all over the house, and brings his toys into the room where I'm standing, and plays with them there.

Well, he looks all right at the moment. I'm praying, of course, and I know my parents are, too, and my sister is sacrificing chickens, so I'm hoping all will work out the way I'd like. Where he's all healthy, and happy, and his sweet Simon self.