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.

 

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What a good girl.

This morning, I gave Musette (cat) her breakfast and then went to the front door, where Josie is usually waiting to go out. Instead, I could see her standing in the living room, but I only had a partial view. “Josie, do you want to go outside?”

She didn’t move.

So I went in there, and she’s standing very still, looking down at the motherload of yummy, yummy cat vomit (from the previous night). But she’s not eating it, because she’s been told not to over and over again. What a good girl.

I cleaned it up and gave her a treat.

I talk to my dog a stupid amount.

When we’re outside especially, it’s a constant babble of one-sided conversation. “What’d you find there? That stick is sort of stuck in that clump of grass, isn’t it? Maybe you should try the other side.” If I were someone else listening to this, it would make me sick.

I justify this behavior with the idea that the more I talk, the more my dog comprehends – not just words, but body language and tone. I’m surprised Border Collies haven’t learned to speak, frankly. I mean, you learn 1,022 words and you don’t bother to wrap your lips around, “Dinner, yo”?

“Binner, bo!”

All this is by way of telling a cute story, or a stupid story, depending on your taste.

Josie O is little, so I slice the pointiest end of the carrot lengthwise and give her half. But yesterday’s carrot was extra thin, so I just lopped off the top and handed it to her. Instead of trotting away with it as she usually does, she just stood there. I noticed the carrot looked a little big now that I actually saw it in her mouth.

“Is that carrot too thick? Do you want me to cut it for you?”

Thpuh. Clunk. That’s the sound of her spitting the carrot on the floor. I picked it up, cut it, and handed it back.

Chomp, and trot, trot, trot, away she went.

It’s probably more serendipitous than conclusive, but I enjoy these little moments. How about you? Got any stories about your dog’s apparent ability to comprehend your meaning?

Here’s a bonus article about how dogs are generally as smart as two-year old kids.

Josie O, lookin’ smart.