Now, being a sometimes nice person, I warned the vet that he was feeling a whole lot better and would probably put up a fight, based on how he reacted the first time we took him there.
The doc took him to the back room to draw the blood, and I could hear him snarl and hiss, his very distinctive growl cutting through the drywall. Moments later the vet came back, saying that the only way they were going to be able to get blood out of him was to sedate him. It was a polite way to say “Hey, your cat is insane, and rather than be ripped to shreds by his teeth and back claws, we want to drug him until he’s higher than a kite.”
That also meant I had to leave him for a couple hours. When I returned to get him, he was a very loopy kitty; on the way home he tried to stand in his carrier several times, only to cave in to gravity.
I took him to the back bedroom—no food, no water, no Buddah for a few hours—and let him out. He stepped out of it gingerly, and began to weave and wobble around the room.
My little PsychoKitty was drunk.
I tried not to laugh, really I did.
But he was 3 sheets to the wind, pupils wide, head tilted as if he was trying to understand why the walls were spinning and the world would not be still.
I’m pretty sure he was enjoying the feeling.
Now that he’s sober, I think he misses it.
Can’t say as how I blame him…