Real Giardia = Fake Grass

Josie, little poo nibbler that she is, got giardia twice in two months, so we decided to restrict her outside time to the front porch unless we’re standing directly over her, watching to see she doesn’t eat poo or grass. It shouldn’t be forever, but apparently this is a bad year for giardia.

So…

I bought a rug made of artificial lawn.

I used the fencing that we used for her puppy pen, and I find that little square of green with the white fence hilarious.

It has quite a stink, with the rubber backing, but one day in the sun lessened it considerably, and reviewers say that a week or two should air it out completely.

Musette doesn’t care about the stink, or maybe she likes it.

I think cats are essentially paint huffers, with their love of burying themselves in packing peanuts, etc. Musette actually walked across our floor while the polyurethane was drying, and we have the barely visible prints to prove it.

If we decide we don’t want to use the rug anymore, there’s no reason we can’t install it outside. We have a terraced area that it would fit exactly.

Looks pretty real, doesn’t it? One thing to know about artificial grass. Real grass feels cool on a hot day, because of the water evaporating out of the ground. Fake turf can get hot in the sun. We have an awning for the front porch, so it doesn’t matter.

P.S. Musette isn’t fat, but she is older, so she spreads more, doncha know. Also, fur.

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The Incredible (drug-fueled) Journey

Musette got her teeth cleaned yesterday. Being an older cat, she had two extractions (one a resorptive lesion).

I opted to have the vet give her injections of an antibiotic and painkiller, rather than having to grab her sore mouth and pill her.

At five, I brought Musette home. Joe took the carrier into a bedroom and shut the door while I got some wet food ready. It had been almost 24 hours since she’d eaten, and Musette loves her food.

I came upstairs, little dish in hand. “Can I open the door?”

Sounds of a struggle. “Just a sec. Okay.”

I opened the door. Joe was holding Musette, who was growling and struggling to get downstairs to her feeder.

“Here, here!” I put the dish in front of her. She inhaled the food and calmed down. I petted her, and she purred and rubbed her chin on my hand. “Wow, look at her eyes,” I said. “They’re still completely dilated.”

Big eyes

Josie, our Chihuahua, came upstairs.

“You could give Musette a kiss,” I suggested. “That might make her feel better.”

Josie edged closer, peered into Musette’s face, then edged away. No thanks. She looks crazy. 

We gave Musette more food and shut her in.

After watching TV for about an hour, I went upstairs and checked on her, expecting her to be more normal. Instead, she was even weirder – craning her neck, walking a few steps, then suddenly lying down and purring. Also, her pupils were still enormous. I got my cell phone and shone a light in her eyes. No reaction.

I went downstairs. “She seems more unstable if anything,” I said to Joe. “Let me see what the post-surgery instructions say.” I read for a moment. “Ah. The painkiller they gave her is morphine. She’s tripping balls.”

Joe switched off the TV. “The great thing about pets is that you can give them really addictive drugs. It’s not like they can get more.”

“You know, children’s movies show animals breaking into the pound to rescue friends  or whatever.  Why not make one where they break into a veterinarian’s office and steal all the narcotics? Do you think Quentin Tarantino has ever wanted to make a kid’s movie?”

“Fear and Loathing in PetSmart.”

“Trainspotting with Spot.”

“The Incredible Drug-Fueled Journey.”

I’m happy to say Musette was completely normal the next morning. Call us, Quentin.