I'm huffing my way up the stairs to the litterbox. I have to stop half way and rest. Then I have to stop at the top of the stair and rest. Then I have to rest at the litterbox. This is a dream? Right?
Nope. I thought there had to be something wrong with me (besides my prodigious belly) so I had them take me to the Vet. I admit it, I hate getting in the carrier. It scares the shit out of me. I'm sure I'll never get out or, when I do, I won't know where I am and they'll leave me again. I know, I know. I'm safe and the girls have promised never to leave me. I still squawk in the carrier.
Jess complained the whole time about carrying me in the carrier. "Geez, Mosby! I hope I can make it to the car!" ha ha. I'm not self-conscious enough yet.
The trip was mercifully short but as soon as the carrier was open, I was in a weird place with people poking me. Without so much as dinner first! Everyone kept popping in to stare at me. Truthfully, I was so freaked out about being at the Vet, that the attention was the least of it. It bothered Marlene a lot, though.
The Vet prodded, massaged, felt, and listened. She drew blood (three tries, thank you. I've got three bald spots now!). I tried to maintain some dignity in all of this: I refused to give them a urine sample. Ha! Of course, two days later I found Jess holding a little dustpan under my ass while I peed in the box. At least I made her work for it.
But guess what kids: I'm fine. My thyroid levels aren't low. My red and white cells are fine. There was no sugar in my urine. I'm fat. But I'm not sick.
Now I'm on Atkins. I kid you not.