Instead, I stayed home, keeping a wary eye on Max, who was limping badly.
Yesterday, he had a tiny limp, as if he had jumped off the bed or sofa and pulled a muscle. It didn't seem to bother him, but I made a mental note, and when he was curled up on my lap I checked between the pads on his feet to make sure there was nothing jammed up in there. He has, a few times, wound up with clumps of dried litter that make him walk funny, and I hoped that was all it was.
It was not.
Today the limp was more pronounced. He ate enthusiastically, though he requested a different morning snack because what I offered was not acceptable. So...perfectly normal.
Still, I felt like I needed to be here. He curled up on his bed under my desk, and stayed there. By the time lunch rolled around and he hadn't gotten back up, I went to check on him. He grunted, sighed like I was annoying, and went back to sleep.
An hour later I opened a can of cat food because Buddah was howling, and that drew Max out. He ate happily and went right back to bed, but it occurred to me that I hadn't seen him drink and he hadn't gone to the litter box. It also occurred to me that I often didn't see him do that in the afternoon, but...
He ate again after the Spouse Thingy got up. We turned the fireplace on early, which I knew would draw Max into the living room where I could actually see him. He slept just fine, but by then I was obsessing...I wanted him to drink. The Spouse Thingy took water to where he lounged, and he drank some. Quite a bit, actually.
So when late snack time rolled around, I carried him to the kitchen because it seemed mean to make him walk. When he was done I carried him to the fountain, which he refused, and then to the litter box, which he used.
|Cripes, you're annoying, lady...|
Then came night snack (yes, he eats 5-6 times a day) and he wandered into the kitchen on his own, I watched him walk and thought his right front foot looked a little different than his left, but it wasn't swollen. I put the food down, he dug in, and then in one horrible flash, I remembered.
Thursday while I was scooping out his afternoon snack, he got underfoot.
I stepped on him.
He didn't scream, just gave a tiny WTF yelp. I didn't STEP on him, just felt my heel coming down on his foot; I stopped before I really stomped. It didn't bother him enough to run and he inhaled his food, as if nothing had happened.
But I did step on him.
He finished eating and then sat back to look up at me. I apologized, because that has to be why his foot hurts.
He was not impressed.
Before I could pick him up, he turned and started walking away. Still limping, but determined. He went to the back of the house, where there's another desk to nap under, and I got the message.
Leave me alone. I'm not dying; it's just an owie from your giant boat-foot.
Still...I suspect Monday morning we're taking him to the vet to get it looked at. Then he'll really hate me.