Remember how we put Petunia down in November because she had late-stage diabetes?
SOB!
I took Sir Charles Buttonsworth to the vet yesterday because he peed in the little angel's closet and was acting weird. Turns out he was severely constipated and had to stay overnight getting enema after enema.
Before I left, I told the vet to also run labs on a gut hunch.
The vet called a little bit ago. Buttonsworth has diabetes.
I cried. I asked for another vet to give me her opinion. She said he's an excellent candidate. Nothing wrong but the diabetes, docile personality, not ancient (I'm finding I have no idea how old any cat I ever adopt really is).
When I learned Petunia would need a three-day hospital stay and to be boarded every time we left town and shots twice a day, I knew in my gut she would never put up with it. She needed to be sedated just to get a vaccine.
When I learned Buttonsworth would need to come back in a week to see if the shots were working and he'd need to be boarded every time we left town and shots twice a day, I knew in my heart I was going to fight for him. Not because I loved Petunia any less, but because I knew she would be so miserable with all that medical interference. Buttonsworth has had a Brazilian, six enemas and a blood draw in the past week and purred his way through the whole thing. I think the fat cat might be able to handle insulin shots.
The Manx Gets a Brazilian
I am such a bad chooser of shelter animals.
But not from their perspective, I suppose?
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