First, we pull the carrier out of the downstairs linen closet, which makes all of the animals look at each other with a touch of panic. I can see the little wheels turning in their ferret brains: it's morning time and there's a distinct lack of duffle bags, so they're probably not going to Alex's house to torture Linus and the baby for the next week.
Yeah, no good can come of this.
They launch into emergency mode. The cat makes herself scarce. Lucy hides under the sweater box, Buttercup scurries under the couch (but gives away her location with the super-loud kibble grazing and good lord, I'm sometimes amazed she still has teeth). Peanut, who was just in that carrier two weeks ago, goes flat. She knows what's coming.
Out of all the girls, Peanut hates the carrier the most. The fifteen minute ride to the vet is a nonstop chew-and-digfest and it will be a similar trip back. She looks at me accusingly at one point like, "lemmmeeeeee out, damn it, lemme out!"
We do let her out when we get to the examination room, but she's more interested in being in the carrier's hammock. She just wanted the option of being out.
The vet tech tells us the girl has gained a quarter of a pound in the past two weeks, which gets her held up to our faces and we say things like "You really are packed with peanuts" and "Look who's been sneaking out to McDonalds" in the sing-song cadence reserved for situations like soothing a ferret and not thinking about how almost four years ago we were in this same room using these same voices with Marcie.
I'm still thinking about it.
The vet comes in and says what we thought he'd say. The course of antibiotics didn't work, which means she probably has an aderenal mass or an ovarian mass, which means the next course is exploratory surgery.
I hold her up and say, "pain don't hurt, chicks dig scars and glory lasts forever" because really, that's just vintage comedy gold.
The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. On the drive home, we reassure each other that it'll be okay.
It'll be okay, right?
Yeah, no good can come of this.
They launch into emergency mode. The cat makes herself scarce. Lucy hides under the sweater box, Buttercup scurries under the couch (but gives away her location with the super-loud kibble grazing and good lord, I'm sometimes amazed she still has teeth). Peanut, who was just in that carrier two weeks ago, goes flat. She knows what's coming.
Out of all the girls, Peanut hates the carrier the most. The fifteen minute ride to the vet is a nonstop chew-and-digfest and it will be a similar trip back. She looks at me accusingly at one point like, "lemmmeeeeee out, damn it, lemme out!"
We do let her out when we get to the examination room, but she's more interested in being in the carrier's hammock. She just wanted the option of being out.
The vet tech tells us the girl has gained a quarter of a pound in the past two weeks, which gets her held up to our faces and we say things like "You really are packed with peanuts" and "Look who's been sneaking out to McDonalds" in the sing-song cadence reserved for situations like soothing a ferret and not thinking about how almost four years ago we were in this same room using these same voices with Marcie.
I'm still thinking about it.
The vet comes in and says what we thought he'd say. The course of antibiotics didn't work, which means she probably has an aderenal mass or an ovarian mass, which means the next course is exploratory surgery.
I hold her up and say, "pain don't hurt, chicks dig scars and glory lasts forever" because really, that's just vintage comedy gold.
The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. On the drive home, we reassure each other that it'll be okay.
It'll be okay, right?
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