Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Cat Pain Scale
Sometimes the Dogtor and I go out on a date. Sometimes.
And usually, after that date, which might include a dessert or glass of Maker's on the rocks, and some tired but almost-inspired conversation, we inevitably drive by the clinic to check on an inpatient or two.
My job, when this happens, is to mew and speak southern niceties to the animals while the Dogtor does less charming stuff like take their rectal temperatures and inject them with pain meds.
It goes something like this:
Me: OH YOU POOR LITTLE PUPPY. You need to eat your food.
Dogtor: She's fifteen.
Me: Can I touch her?
Dogtor: Yes. Can you actually hold her while I change her bandage?
Me: Mhmm. Oh you poor thing. You brave dog. Bless your heart.
Dogtor: I'm going to warn you that there may be some bleeding.
(Dogtor removes bandaging.)
Me (eyes wide): Oh for Christ's sake! Oh you poor thing!
(Dogtor listens to the heart.)
Me: That's a big incision!
Dogtor: I can't hear you. (points to stethoscope.)
(Dogtor puts on fresh bandaging.)
Me: Now look, dog. You have on new heart underpants.
Me (nodding toward next cage): Can I pet the cat?
Me: See? I help a lot.
What I offer these animals requires few skills, but a special constitution. Namely: a bleeding heart, the ability to stretch monosyllabic words to polysyllabic, and a tendency to panic at slight signs of animal discomfort.
See cat pain scale, above. You can thank me later for this resource.