This week was really quite stressful in our household. One of us was scheduled to have our teeth cleaned, for the first time in our whole entire life, on Wednesday.

 

I’ve had my teeth cleaned, so I know it wasn’t us!

 

Good deduction, 9. The patient was Hoosegow, our resident thirteen-year-old tiger tabby.

 

Is that old for a cat? He’d be 91 in dog years.

 

Good question, Lily. According to a chart at the Chewy ™ webpage, he is 74 in people years. A bit older than me at this point, and perhaps wiser. Because he knew “something was up” when I took away his kibble at 10 P Tuesday evening. Even more so when I did not remove the slat from the pet door right after I got up the following morning.

 

Why not?

 

Because I was pretty sure he’d feast on grass if I let him outdoors, and they’d been quite clear at the veterinary clinic: No food after 10 PM.

I felt terrible about this, of course. If he’d been a thirteen-year-old child or a 74-year-old adult, I would have just told him This is what you need to do, and why.

 

But with a cat? With no words to explain the situation except repeated iterations of “I’m sorry, buddy, I can’t,” I was on the receiving end of feline-stared daggers.

 

Fortunately, check-in time was 8 AM. . .

 

The staff at the vets’ office was uniformly kind. After Hoosegow was escorted to the back area where surgeries take place I heard one vet tech explaining to the other that Hoosegow means “jail.” It was heartening to realize she’d paid enough attention to retain that piece of trivia from our last visit, when we learned Hoosegow had serious tartar and the start of gingivitis on his upper back teeth.

Given the severity of the tartar, extractions were line items in the estimate. I won’t name the price range because I don’t want to shock anybody, especially you, Lily and 9, who see the world in 1974 and 1969 prices, respectively. Suffice it to say no extractions knocked a couple hundred dollars off the total. The procedure went off without a hitch. I got a call around noon, was told he was awake though still quite groggy from the anesthesia, and that he’d been injected with something to reduce the post-cleaning pain.

They used a needle? I hate needles.

That’s what injection means, 9, so yes.

Mom lets me go to the dentist who uses laughing gas instead of shots and novocaine. 

Somehow, I don’t think that’s available for kitties. Maybe they can’t tolerate it, or maybe it’s impossible for them to sit still when hooked up to the breathing apparatus. Moving right along. . .

Pickup time was 3 P, and what a relief, because the house had been too quiet without him. Even when he’s sleeping, I realized, Hoosegow radiates his energy into the household.

The grogginess was evident when I picked him up- -pupils the size of saucers and a vague look of recognition on his kitty face when I greeted him. In contrast to the vocal protests on the way to the vet that morning, all was quiet on the drive home. I hauled his carrier into the kitchen and opened the door. He staggered out like Arthur Housman (known for depicting drunks) of silent movie fame. I resisted the urge to pick him up and carry him. He was determined to check things out in the kitchen and bedroom before settling down by a space heater for a long snooze.

Within a few hours he insisted on going outside. With a couple of stops on the way. . .

 

By evening he had eaten a bit. When awake, he was more affectionate than usual, possibly a result of the pain killer. This change has persisted, though, and I’m starting to wonder if his dirty teeth really were bothering him enough to make him cranky. How not? But, as any vet will observe, cats are stoic to the point of being indecipherable when it comes to pain.

Does he have to go again?

Possibly. A dental exam date one year in the future was included on his discharge papers. The vet is concerned about one tooth that may need to be extracted at a later date.

But for now he is home, our household is complete, and my cat mom guilt is sinking into the gorgeous springtime sunsets.

 

 

It’s always a celebration when you get to bring somebody home.