I think (knock on wood) that Lucy Goosey is in the clear. I have based this hypothesis on several pieces of evidence.
- The vomit-a-thon has ceased. Oh she still does that weird trick where she occasionally gets so excited she regurgitates her undigested food in the form of one solid soggy stinky log. She keeps the food in just long enough for it to absorb fluid and puff up to more than 500% of it’s original size, like one of those expanding dinosaurs we played with as kids. That’s just normal Lucy behavior, though. We’ve made it almost a solid week without any of the constant retching and clear fluids we were seeing at the peak of pukefest. HooRAY!
- Simone is being mean to her again. For a hot minute, little Miss Alpha Kitty paused her reign of terror over Lucy and would allow her to nap on a human’s lap in her presence. Typically Simone gets first dibs on all laps…and on all food…and on all furniture…oh, you get the picture. The reign has resumed and Lucy can’t walk within six inches of Simone without expecting a good solid whap against her abnormally thick skull.
- Lucy is playing again. In fact, she decided that she needed to play with a ping pong ball and the metal stove at 3am this morning. It wasn’t a half-hearted attempt at playing, either. Girlie was wailing on that ball, bending it like Beckham and relishing in the metallic crash that resulted over and over and OVER again. Also, when I get out of bed at 3:14am to yell at her, she feels well enough to frolic amongst the table legs with wild abandon and surprising agility to avoid capture.
All good signs, I think! Which is good, because I have been trying to figure out how I was going to sneak her in with me on my next CAT scan. The family that gets radioactive together stays together.
I also think I’ve figured out what happened. (Internet, you may need a pad and pencil to follow this because my chemo brain might have slightly lessened my deductive reasoning skills. I like to make shit up to fill in the gaps. That’s just how I roll.) As I’ve mentioned time and time again, Lucy is dumb as hell. She makes Heidi Montag look like a Nobel Prize candidate.
She also likes to lick stuff. (Lucy, not Heidi. Well maybe Heidi does, too but that’s not the point.) She’s particularly fond of peppermint lotion on bare feet. (This is why I always offer my house guests peppermint foot lotion after a long day of walking in the city. Hearing them scream in the middle of the night never gets old.) She also licks plastic bags.
I think maybe she kicked it up a notch and started eating plastic bags. It turns out they make those things with fish oil, and mine is not the only kitty with a plastic bag fetish. I also called Dad who confirmed that plastic wouldn’t show up on an X-ray. Actually, he had a much more involved explanation of why it wouldn’t show up, and what scans it would show up on, and something about chemical composition but I’m fairly certain the moral of the story supported my theory.
I think the real break in the case (and where the DUH DUH would have played had this been an episode of Law & Order) was when I followed a string of puke patches leading under the bed and found my evidence. There it lay in a pile of frothy white disgustingness, the entire handle of a Shoprite bag. Like I need another reason to yell at Rocco for not carrying around his own reusable shopping bags.
So we decided to take her off of her four hundred medications. I just don’t have the heart to dope her up with all those medicine droppers if she doesn’t need them.
It all seemed pretty traumatizing to me. The anti-nausea stuff was bright orange and had a citrus-esque scent to it. I felt like I was squeezing 1ml of Fanta into the poor girl’s mouth. Then we immediately followed that with another dropper full of a viscous brown liquid antibiotic that smelled like mesquite. Fanta and mesquite go together like…like…like orange juice and mayonnaise. Ew. Then Rocco would straddle her on the floor and try to slingshot some pill form of another antibiotic into the back of Lucy’s throat. With all those antibiotics, we’re lucky she’s not running around with a little kitty yeast infection!
Hoping that hurling the offending article back out had solved all her issues, we quit the meds and she’s bouncing back quite nicely. Here’s hoping the little hooker lives to 35.