Special Skills

At the bottom of Zach's acting résumé, he has a section called "Special Skills" that lists the specific dialects he's mastered and other assorted aptitudes that might turn a casting director's head. If he played the banjo or was a ventriloquist or could juggle fire, this is the place he'd advertise.

I don't have a "Special Skills" section on my résumé, which is already too long and disjointed for its own good. But if I did have a "Special Skills" section on my résumé, I'd be able to update with a new bit of miscellany. Right after "can spot a typo at 20 paces" and "able to eat prodigious amounts of ice cream at a single sitting," I'd have to add "can administer IV fluids to unsuspecting cats."

That's right.

Normandy (aka Norm), our 16-1/2-year-old, sheds-with-the-best-of-them cat, has been having kidney problems of late. Nothing dire, fortunately, but serious enough that we need to treat her with fluids. Notice the word "we" in the preceding sentence.

I guess some people in this situation choose to take their pets to the vet two to three times a week to have the fluids administered professionally, but that's not a tenable situation unless a) your pet enjoys visiting the vet and b) you have a supply of disposable income at which I could only marvel.

So . . . I went to the vet, where I learned how to give IV fluids.

Then I came home and—despite excellent help from our neighbor and local cat wizard, Sara—abjectly failed to apply that lesson (chiefly because unlike a human faced with a phlebotomist, Norm did not elect to walk over, sit down, and stay absolutely still in the vicinity of the needle).

Now we are implementing Plan B, in which a different vet tech comes to the house, corrals the cat, and coaches me through the process of hanging an IV bag; uncapping the sterile needle; finding the right spot in Norm's back; "committing" and then sticking her with the needle; opening the line so the fluid flows in; closing the line when the right amount has been dispensed; re-capping, removing, and safely disposing of the used needle; attaching a new needle for next time; and, most of all, getting over my guilt at literally stabbing this sweetest of cats in the back.

The corralling part is actually worse than the back-stabbing part, if you can believe it.  You know what they say about herding cats?  Well, herding even one is a challenge where Norm is concerned.  She is fast, geriatric though she may be.

The house calls are a temporary measure.  The idea is that, over time, we'll be able to do this ourselves, without a coach.

I'm sure I'll eventually get the hang of it—technically and emotionally.

But wow.

I never thought I'd say this, but I would so much rather be on the other end of the needle.