Poop

We got a gift from our new apartment managers. Pretzels, a roll of toilet paper, soap. Very appropriate. It had a straw-like plastic ribbon, and I thought Moby would like to chase it. I wasn't going to just let him have it. But I tied it to the doorknob, and puttered in the kitchen. Moby came in rubbing my shins with his head. Then I noticed him at the ribbon. Not chasing. Eating. About 12-18 inches of it, gone. I was a bit worried. I got more worried. When D got home, he called the vet for advice. He was told this is not uncommon at this time of year, what with plastic Easter grass, in the feline diet, according to the MSPCA. Advised to watch for constipation over 24-48 hours. Diarrhea, blood, vomiting, protruding ribbon, what I would expect, as a nurse. Not that I have ever had to extract ribbon from a human rectum, I have seen other foreign objects, and understand the general rules. I once loved watching Emergency Vets.

I worked my usual ten hours today. I periodically email back and forth with D, my job being intermittent hurry-up, and wait. Well, D writes that Moby had been scratching in the litter box, and had not had a poop in the 24 hours since the ribbon ingestion.  So he called the animal hospital, and they suggested he come in.   He sent me an email, he was taking him in, while I was at work, and included the address.  I figured out how to get there, picturing D in a waiting room while they did surgery to remove the obstruction.  I ran out, I caught the train, worried and planned, tried to stay calm. Realized how responsible I feel for this small life, how much Moby means to us, and to me. I ran those last blocks, the light fading, still uncertain what I was going to find, or if D was already home, and worried that I was not home.

It's a beautiful old building, that reminded me of my ancient grade school. I was helped, frantic and fighting back tears. Kindly, helpfully, told D and Moby were finished with the vet. Finally, we figured out that they'd just left.  And that Moby was fine,  x-ray done, and D in a cab home with him.  Some confusion calling me a cab, same name to same address within five minutes. I was so relieved, he was fine, Moby was fine, all that mattered. The cab driver was remarkably not terrifying, especially for a Boston cabbie. I hurried home,   I ran in, to find D and Moby standing by the door in the hall.  D lost his keys.  He'd only been waiting about five minutes. 

Says Moby kept looking up at him, as if to say "Well? Open the door.  You are the one with the thumbs." 

Let the boys in, made dinner, and all is well now. 

I was cranky with D for going in so soon, for panicking, for the stress on Moby, for the expense right now. And instantly regretted it. He was the one on the ground. If Moby had gotten seriously ill, and he had not, we would be broken. He did the right thing. Moby is family. He is included in our love, has joined in. Just as I regret going to the ER after my choking, D does not. Because he could not have dealt with the perhaps, had he not insisted on my being checked. Same thing. I once sat for four hours while they pieced together his elbow, trying to comfort myself that it was his arm, and not, as it could so easily have been, his head. And it helped less than I hoped.

When those you love are in peril, normal, rational thought, is not entirely reliable. It does not cover all the unaskable questions.