Cursed

I've often suspected our sweet little (or big as the case may be, Prada has gained another 10 ounces which evidently isn't healthy) cat has a mouth like a sailor. Now, I'm pretty certain of it. Last week Chris took Prada to the vet for her swollen, ouchy paw. I made it just in time to rush into the vet's office and announce to the waiting room that my husband and cat were there somewhere and I wanted to see them. Um, yeah, that was a little embarrassing. The vet wasn't quite sure why the paw was swollen; it could be because of a trauma and subsequent infection or from some crazy kitty immune problem. The vet gave Prada an anti-inflammatory shot. It worked for a bit, but by Wednesday of this week it was a little swollen again and Prada wouldn't put weight on it. After much discussion with the vet's office mainly involving me saying no, I'm not taking the cat back, just give me the damn antibiotics for her, I was able to get some medicine and strict instructions to soak the paw in warm water twice a day.

So now between holding her down and plunging her paw in water and holding her down and prying open her jaw to get the medicine down her throat, the cat has made sounds I can only imagine are nasty bad words. And who knew that the same yucky pink medicine given to children with ear infections is given to cats with bad paws. Remembering plenty of incidents where I was held down and my jaw pried open to get Amoxicillin down my throat, I gagged at the sight and smell of the bubble gum flavored yuck. I guess not wanting to take medicine runs in families and evidently so does cussing a blue streak.