"Somebody's got a case of the Mondays."
-Secretary, Office Space Movie
As I sit here, typing my first blog post on this new blog, I realize that that "somebody" is me. Monday usually has a hiccup or two, but this Monday took the cake. I'm not usually one to air any issues... I like to keep my business to myself. However, this was too "out there" not to post on the first day of my new blog.
Today started off pretty normal. I woke up, had my daily cup of coffee, checked on all the livestock, and woke up the kids. My oldest son, Cameron, had FFA practice to go to (he's heading to the State tournament next week) so all of the kids piled into the car, and we drove him over to Cape Fear.
On the way back home, I was thinking about my schedule for the day. It's my husband's birthday, so I wanted to have time to bake him his birthday brownies (he prefers that over cake), I also had some schoolwork that I had to do, and I wanted to get started on the Monthly Watercolor Challenge in my watercolor painting group. I had a lot of stuff planned but all of those plans went out the door when I saw a tiny blob of fur on the side of the road.
I quickly pulled the car over, but the blob was gone. It had dashed back into the woods and I sat there on the shoulder, squatting down, calling for the kitten over and over while my three younger kids had their faces smashed against the window, trying to see what it was that I had seen when I zipped over to the edge of the road and put on my emergency lights.
It was a kitten. Small, brown, completely covered in fleas, ticks, and some creepy kind of eggs. We got home and I kicked into "rescue" mode... grabbing my veterinary box of various medicines we've accumulated through the years, the blue Dawn dish soap (a great flea-killer if you ever need one), cotton balls, ear-cleaning solution, cat food, you-name-it. I got to work, washing and rewashing the kitten, pulling off ticks and cleaning ears. The little guy (it's a boy!) was dehydrated and starving, so I opened up the kitten food and syringed some water into him. He started to perk up a bit and looked so much better after his eyes had been cleaned. I tried calling a few rescues in the area, but, probably because it was Monday (a busy day for many rescues), no one was answering.
Even after the dish-soap flea treatment, there were still a few around the eyes and ears that I couldn't get, so I reached for the CapStar. CapStar is an extremely safe medication that effectively kills adult fleas. It has to be repeated at a later date to take care of any missed flea eggs, but it's a great step for combating fleas right from the start. I gave him the pill, but his little teeth snapped down and punctured through my glove.
Pulling off my glove, I looked down at the bite mark and the blood welling up. Normally, a bite wouldn't worry me very much, but we live in a high-rabies area. I had already seen a rabid fox on my farm before and I was worried that since this guy had been in the woods, maybe his stumbling wasn't just due to dehydration and malnourishment.
Off to the vet and the hospital I went.
***Warning: If you are scared of needles, do not read further.***
First, I dropped the kitten at the vet, where they did a bite report and told me that they could either keep and observe the kitten for 10 days, or test immediately for rabies. It would be up to the head veterinarian which course they would take. I left my contact information and told them to let me know. In the case of observation, we'd be back in 10 days. They recommended that I go to the hospital, which was already thrown onto my ever-growing list of "Monday Plans", and I agreed... it was the best step to take.
I went straight to the ER.
Now, I'll admit, I felt a bit like a wimp when I went in and told them that I was there for a "kitten bite". (C'mon, I'm tougher than that.) However, when they heard the story, I was seen pretty quickly. Speaking to the doctor, he told me that it would be best, given the circumstances and where the kitten was found (plus, knowing that it was "sick" in some way), he told me that it was in my best interest to get the first series of rabies shots and to get them today. (Not to wait for any observation period.)
When I was growing up, I had a neighbor's dog run up and bite my leg just out of the blue. They couldn't find the rabies vaccination certificate and my mom told me that I'd have to go in and get "tons of shots in the stomach" and that the "needles were huge". (Mom's bedside manner has never been the best.) This story echoed in my head as the doctor told me that I'd need the shots, and that, yes, they would hurt. While they no longer did the 10 shots to the stomach anymore, the "improved" plan still had me and my needle-phobia sweating bullets.
Doctor: "First, we'll need to give you a shot in your finger in several places (I was bit on the index finger) and push a bunch of stuff in there that would latch on to any rabies virus and keep your main system from absorbing it."
Me: *squeaks* "Okay."
Doctor: "Next, we'll give you a shot in your arm and two in your hip."
Me: "Like my hip joint?!"
Doctor: "Nope, just the hip. You know, we've got some meat back there. We'll just pop it in that."
Me: "Okay."
That's when he patted me on the shoulder, and said, "I'm sorry you're going through this. You tried to do something nice."
Only, I didn't feel so nice. I wished I'd stopped at the store and gotten a Monster Energy drink instead of picking up a feral kitten at that point.
The nurse was nice enough. He came in and gave me a bowl of betadine to soak my hand in while
he "got the shots ready". I think waiting is always the worst part of anything. While you're waiting, you think up all kinds of different scenarios... and I'm not short on imagination. I had mental images of me turning into the rabies-zombies from 28 Days Later, of me turning into Cujo. Horrible childhood memories of sobbing while watching Old Yeller had me trying not to panic.
The nurse came back with his assortment of needles. Him: "You want the easy one or the hard one first?"
Me: "Give me the hard one first, please."
Him: "Do I need to have someone hold you down?"
Me: "Nope, just tell me when you're going to do it so I don't jump."
Him: "Okay. Let's get this done."
**FINAL WARNING- Rabies shots ahead***
We started with my index finger, which I didn't think would be so bad until I realized how much stuff they wanted to pop in it. He did as much as he could, and the burning hot fire had me empathizing with Theon Greyjoy. (Bonus nerd points if you get the reference.) My finger had the bulbous look of E.T.'s finger when he was cooing, "Ooooouuuuchhhh" to Elliot.
He couldn't fit everything into my finger, though he got it from a few different angles, so he put the rest into my forearm. A shot in the arm was next, but wasn't a biggie since I was still so focused on my flaming balloon finger of death. Finally, it was time for my "hip" shot... which turned out to be a thigh shot. Not so bad until you get a look at the size of the needle.
"This stuff is thick like peanut butter. Gotta have a needle that can do the job," he said. Great. Peanut butter needles. In my mind, I figured they should just be called sharp straws at that point. Still, straws or no, they weren't as bad as the finger shots.
I sat for 20 minutes afterwards to make sure that I had no adverse reactions to the shots. From there, I limped to the pharmacy, picked up a myriad of cat-bite protection prescriptions and limped my way out to the parking lot, and cell phone reception. (Realizing during this time that it's possible for your body to feel like one big charlie-horse.)
Yup, I'd say that's a "case of the Mondays" for sure.
-Secretary, Office Space Movie
As I sit here, typing my first blog post on this new blog, I realize that that "somebody" is me. Monday usually has a hiccup or two, but this Monday took the cake. I'm not usually one to air any issues... I like to keep my business to myself. However, this was too "out there" not to post on the first day of my new blog.
Today started off pretty normal. I woke up, had my daily cup of coffee, checked on all the livestock, and woke up the kids. My oldest son, Cameron, had FFA practice to go to (he's heading to the State tournament next week) so all of the kids piled into the car, and we drove him over to Cape Fear.
On the way back home, I was thinking about my schedule for the day. It's my husband's birthday, so I wanted to have time to bake him his birthday brownies (he prefers that over cake), I also had some schoolwork that I had to do, and I wanted to get started on the Monthly Watercolor Challenge in my watercolor painting group. I had a lot of stuff planned but all of those plans went out the door when I saw a tiny blob of fur on the side of the road.
I quickly pulled the car over, but the blob was gone. It had dashed back into the woods and I sat there on the shoulder, squatting down, calling for the kitten over and over while my three younger kids had their faces smashed against the window, trying to see what it was that I had seen when I zipped over to the edge of the road and put on my emergency lights.
It was a kitten. Small, brown, completely covered in fleas, ticks, and some creepy kind of eggs. We got home and I kicked into "rescue" mode... grabbing my veterinary box of various medicines we've accumulated through the years, the blue Dawn dish soap (a great flea-killer if you ever need one), cotton balls, ear-cleaning solution, cat food, you-name-it. I got to work, washing and rewashing the kitten, pulling off ticks and cleaning ears. The little guy (it's a boy!) was dehydrated and starving, so I opened up the kitten food and syringed some water into him. He started to perk up a bit and looked so much better after his eyes had been cleaned. I tried calling a few rescues in the area, but, probably because it was Monday (a busy day for many rescues), no one was answering.
Even after the dish-soap flea treatment, there were still a few around the eyes and ears that I couldn't get, so I reached for the CapStar. CapStar is an extremely safe medication that effectively kills adult fleas. It has to be repeated at a later date to take care of any missed flea eggs, but it's a great step for combating fleas right from the start. I gave him the pill, but his little teeth snapped down and punctured through my glove.
Pulling off my glove, I looked down at the bite mark and the blood welling up. Normally, a bite wouldn't worry me very much, but we live in a high-rabies area. I had already seen a rabid fox on my farm before and I was worried that since this guy had been in the woods, maybe his stumbling wasn't just due to dehydration and malnourishment.
Off to the vet and the hospital I went.
***Warning: If you are scared of needles, do not read further.***
First, I dropped the kitten at the vet, where they did a bite report and told me that they could either keep and observe the kitten for 10 days, or test immediately for rabies. It would be up to the head veterinarian which course they would take. I left my contact information and told them to let me know. In the case of observation, we'd be back in 10 days. They recommended that I go to the hospital, which was already thrown onto my ever-growing list of "Monday Plans", and I agreed... it was the best step to take.
I went straight to the ER.
Now, I'll admit, I felt a bit like a wimp when I went in and told them that I was there for a "kitten bite". (C'mon, I'm tougher than that.) However, when they heard the story, I was seen pretty quickly. Speaking to the doctor, he told me that it would be best, given the circumstances and where the kitten was found (plus, knowing that it was "sick" in some way), he told me that it was in my best interest to get the first series of rabies shots and to get them today. (Not to wait for any observation period.)
When I was growing up, I had a neighbor's dog run up and bite my leg just out of the blue. They couldn't find the rabies vaccination certificate and my mom told me that I'd have to go in and get "tons of shots in the stomach" and that the "needles were huge". (Mom's bedside manner has never been the best.) This story echoed in my head as the doctor told me that I'd need the shots, and that, yes, they would hurt. While they no longer did the 10 shots to the stomach anymore, the "improved" plan still had me and my needle-phobia sweating bullets.
Doctor: "First, we'll need to give you a shot in your finger in several places (I was bit on the index finger) and push a bunch of stuff in there that would latch on to any rabies virus and keep your main system from absorbing it."
Me: *squeaks* "Okay."
Doctor: "Next, we'll give you a shot in your arm and two in your hip."
Me: "Like my hip joint?!"
Doctor: "Nope, just the hip. You know, we've got some meat back there. We'll just pop it in that."
Me: "Okay."
That's when he patted me on the shoulder, and said, "I'm sorry you're going through this. You tried to do something nice."
Only, I didn't feel so nice. I wished I'd stopped at the store and gotten a Monster Energy drink instead of picking up a feral kitten at that point.
The nurse was nice enough. He came in and gave me a bowl of betadine to soak my hand in while
he "got the shots ready". I think waiting is always the worst part of anything. While you're waiting, you think up all kinds of different scenarios... and I'm not short on imagination. I had mental images of me turning into the rabies-zombies from 28 Days Later, of me turning into Cujo. Horrible childhood memories of sobbing while watching Old Yeller had me trying not to panic.
The nurse came back with his assortment of needles. Him: "You want the easy one or the hard one first?"
Me: "Give me the hard one first, please."
Him: "Do I need to have someone hold you down?"
Me: "Nope, just tell me when you're going to do it so I don't jump."
Him: "Okay. Let's get this done."
**FINAL WARNING- Rabies shots ahead***
We started with my index finger, which I didn't think would be so bad until I realized how much stuff they wanted to pop in it. He did as much as he could, and the burning hot fire had me empathizing with Theon Greyjoy. (Bonus nerd points if you get the reference.) My finger had the bulbous look of E.T.'s finger when he was cooing, "Ooooouuuuchhhh" to Elliot.
He couldn't fit everything into my finger, though he got it from a few different angles, so he put the rest into my forearm. A shot in the arm was next, but wasn't a biggie since I was still so focused on my flaming balloon finger of death. Finally, it was time for my "hip" shot... which turned out to be a thigh shot. Not so bad until you get a look at the size of the needle.
"This stuff is thick like peanut butter. Gotta have a needle that can do the job," he said. Great. Peanut butter needles. In my mind, I figured they should just be called sharp straws at that point. Still, straws or no, they weren't as bad as the finger shots.
I sat for 20 minutes afterwards to make sure that I had no adverse reactions to the shots. From there, I limped to the pharmacy, picked up a myriad of cat-bite protection prescriptions and limped my way out to the parking lot, and cell phone reception. (Realizing during this time that it's possible for your body to feel like one big charlie-horse.)
Yup, I'd say that's a "case of the Mondays" for sure.
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