Like any little kid, I got Max to the vet and lo and behold, his mouth opened. Not just a little bit, but the doc was able to open it all the way, further, he said, than he can usually get most cats open. Max was not happy, but he allowed the vet to not only examine his mouth, but peer deeply into his ears and rub his jaws as he looked for the source of the pain.

If not for the fever—yep, Max let that happen, too—he would have made me look like a typical overprotective mother, dragging her kid to the pediatrician for every little sniffle. The doc mused that regardless of how far his mouth opened, just the fact that Max allowed himself to be poked and prodded was proof that he’s not feeling well.

Instead of biting and snarling, he showed his immense displeasure by pooping on the table. And then he jumped up onto my shoulder, slid down my arm and back, and pooped on me while he was at it.

This wasn’t garden variety cat poop, either. It smelled so freaking bad that even people in the waiting room were starting to gag.

The doc cleaned the table off, helped me clean the back of my arm off, and he took Max to the back for blood work. We’re still keeping an eye on his pancreas, plus he wanted to get a look at other things to see if whatever is making Max feel like crap can be pinpointed.

So Max pooped back there, too.

As a precaution—considering his amylase levels before and Just In Case—they sent us home with an antibiotic (chances are this will become part of his life, on three weeks, off three weeks) and will call us tomorrow with the blood work.

And just to be sure I got the message, Max pooped a little on the way home, too.

Fun times.

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