I Fought the Art, and the Art won

Okay people, I know many you are keeping track, so you will pleased to note the following story contains:

1. Cat goodness, plenty of it.
2. Personal injury
3. Strange, and obscure references
4. Plenty of swearing, don't wanna dissapoint my fan base.

So buckle up, or odds are good you may get fuckled up.

So Tuesday I'm driving home a drugged up (and soon to be pooping all over my room) cat in my car, and I realized that this week was gonna blow some major ass. I was missing a going away happy hour for a co-worker, who to be honest probably won't be missed, but I hate missing Happy Hours. I can use more Happy Hours in my life, can't you?

I was also realizing that trivia for that night was also boned, and decided it would be best to "suck it up".  Some backstory:

Julie is out of town. Julie, also, is a fucker. She scheduled Arthur's 2 week checkup to coincide with (Art's on antibiotics because his kidney numbers are a tad screwy, but rest assured he'll be fine, and will proabably outlive us all, especially if he gets his way. . . . keep reading), Kirby's first dental cleaning ever (he's 9, so yep, my Cat Dad of 2008 award is pretty fucking much locked up) with his screaming because he also hates cages companion, Arthur. Fast forward 90 minutes, I finally get to leave the office, with a more than pissed off Art, as Lord Boo (Kirby's favorite nickname) sat in his cage giving me a look like "forgot one, forgot one, dude, dude, DUUUUUUDE". The Vet let me know in Kirby's pre-surgery exam, that he had one tooth that had a hole in it (See Cat Dad of '08 Award) so they were gonna have to pull that bitch. That also means he would be on antibotics AND pain killers, for only the next 3-5 years. I drop Art off at home, he promptly eats all his food and throws it up at my feet, I curse him (and clean up the mess) and head back to work. I finally got a call around 3:30 saying that it was actually TWO rotten teeth that needed to be pullled, on top of a missing tooth that to the Vet's best guess "just fucking fell out."

So I pick up LB, and learn that right after I left, he got all ghetto on the entire office staff, requiring that not only all 3 members of staff be required to restrain him, but also required the services of the local Swat Team that just happened to be passing by. (Thanks boys!) So, the Vet warned me he could "blow up" in the next couple days, and to keep an eye on him. Fun!

So Kirboo gets narcotics in syringe form, that thankfully require no injecting, just a quick spray on his gums, post meal.  I'll be honest, this made me nervous, but I've thankfully learned that not only does Kirby LOVE his new painkillers, he also is now a fan of not only Creedence Clearwater Revival, but Foghat. Thankfully radios are easily disconnected.

So last night I get home, to begin my routine of Art gets his Blue pill, and an hour later his food and Antiobiotic, and Kirby gets his antiobotic, food, and then his twice a day "fix". (his words, not mine, man I hope Kitten Rehab is cheap).Well, that gets blown to hell when Art decides that blue pill is not going down HIS throat, and he throws a fit I was fairly sure was gonna end with his head doing fucking 360 and pea soup all over my pants. I finally restrain him, and give him the old "sorry dude this is gonna hurt me more than it's gonna hurt you" to which he responds "fucking right it is" and for the FIRST time in his life, sinks his teeth directly into the top middle of my left hand. While this is all happening, Julie is still out of town, in CALIFORNIA. . . . . .

Once I was done cursing, I gave Art a solemn oath I'd never give him a pill again, then quickly stuffed that fucker down his throat (my hand was still bleeding, so I felt not that bad) then I gave Lord Boo his series of pills and shit, and then gave my hand a check. IT FUCKING HURT. It wasn't pouring blood, but Art got his money's worth out of his left fang, as that bitch went WAY deep. After a quick call to see how Julie's trip was going (YOUR FUCKING CAT JUST FUCKING TRIED TO FUCKING KILL ME< HOPE THE FUCKING WEATHER IN FUCKING CALIFUCKINGORNIA IS NICE) that's verbatim by the way, I made sure my hand was properly cleaned, and went about my way. Yep, Warcraft. . . .

Two hours later I realize my hand is already swollen, and decide to hit the sack and worry about it in the morning. Morning comes, yep, hand is still fucked up. Now it's swollen, red, sensitive to touch and very, very warm. So I go on the internet to discover symptoms for infection, and they are when the wounded area is swollen, red, sensitive to touch, and very, very warm. Sweet. Thank God I work in a hospital, one phone call later I had a 1pm appointment, to thankfully get the sort of drugs that make Kirby keep requesting "Freebird" everytime I come home these days.

1:15 pm, my appointment is over, my white blood cell count is good and I'm now the new reciepient of a  875 MG prescription of some sort of antibiotic. Yep, i'm pretty sure antibiotic is latin for "pills so fucking big they'd pop your fucking tire if you ran over them". Also, one quick funny side note, after the nurse left me in the exam room following her comment of "waiting the night to get that checked out has a great chance of making it harder to fix" she closes the door for me to note that the magazine rack on the back of the door, is full of Cat Fancy magazines. Fuck me with a chainsaw.

So, long story short. . . . I'm now sufficiently antibioticed up and more than looking forward to give Art his blue pill tonight by throwing him and the pill into my running ceiling fan, and hoping nature works that fucking shit out.