Greg House has become my albatross; no amount of money, worry or efforts seem to alleviate him of his discomfort. Last night, after having spent almost half an hour fighting with him so I could clean his open wounds and apply gauze bandages, I flew off the handle when he had managed to tear them off not even 20 minutes later. Part of my rage was the knowledge that it's not his fault--he's a cat who is itching uncontrollably, and he wants to attack the source of his itch. As a human, I'd want to do the same thing. The difference is that he has no sense of self-control; the concept of letting the wound heal doesn't enter the framework of his mind, and so no amount of chiding or yelling on my part will keep him from attacking his own body. My poor little boy.
Poor me. I feel like I'm starting to lose it just a little bit. He's still on his cortizone meds, but these steroids don't seem to be combatting the itch anymore. He's also on an antibiotic so that his open wounds don't get infected. He can't stay on these drugs indefinitely. So, I pour hydrogen peroxide on his wounds and watch them fizzle and bubble under the substance. He spends the entire time trying to run away, so we have a constant battle of wills, with me sternly telling my unconvinced cat that I'm doing all this for his own good. He just yowls a warbled meow and looks around the room for escape.
I've been making homemade Elizabethan collars out of styrofoam plates to place around his neck, to keep him from biting his wounds. He has now figured out how to break them off. After trying band-aids that he's bitten off, gauze and tape that he's ripped off, this morning I wrapped his band-aid with an Ace bandage--wrapped his whole body up in it. He was pissed, but I was resilient. These wounds are going to heal if it's the last thing I do. Problem is, eventually they'll need exposure to air to form a scab and truly heal. I don't know how to leave them open without him attacking them and opening them back up again. It really is quite a debacle.
I'm leaving him at the vet for the week that I'm with Adam. I figured he'd get a little more interaction if he's constantly exposed to doctors and technicians running about everyday. Plus, if he starts to really tear himself apart, medical attention should be there to take care of him. Should, being the operative word. I'm starting to think that once I'm back in town, I'll be seeking a second opinion from another veterinarian. Things just aren't getting any better right now, and we've dumped way too much money into our current vet clinic to not have better results. My little albatross is costing me a fortune.
Supposedly, to be a ship followed by an albatross is a good omen; having killed the albatross that followed his ship, the Mariner and his crewmates in the "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" were plagued by misfortune and death. I wonder if the reverse has been true for me--my seeming good deed of adopting this homeless kitty was actually a sign of bad things to come. There's a reason people tell you not to feed a stray--so it won't follow you home.
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