Friday, August 11, 2006
Confined to Quarters
Poor Luteus. Somewhere on his travels, he's picked up a bit of a tummy bug which has led to him spending the entire week confined to the house.
No chasing (or catching) birds / mice / any combination thereof.
No going to sleep in the middle of the road, only to be woken by an irate driver hooting their car horn.
No getting up from the middle of the road, stretching lazily, turning round and going back to sleep in exactly the same spot - sending already irate driver into an absolute frenzy of hooting.
No chasing leaves across the lawn.
No scaling the fences and clambering onto the roof of Next Door's shed to survey his kingdom.
Still, the antibiotics seem to be working. At least, they are now the little sod swallows them, rather than spitting them across the kitchen with a loud "Ptooey!". They are now, you see, rubbed on the fat from the joint of meat in the fridge before being handed to him, which means he wolfs them down. He's also developed a bit of a taste for the probiotic paste the vet prescribed for him - provided he can lick it off fingers rather than have it squirted into his mouth via syringe. Fair enough.
From being listless, quiet and refusing to eat on Monday, he's now merrily bouncing off the walls, tapdancing on the kitchen worktops (despite yelps of "Luteus! No! Down!" from the Owners) and trying to eat the parlour palm. And hoovering up any food in sight - whether it's his or not.
Unfortunately, he's also had to have his temperature taken this week. Twice. The first time, he sort of slumped on the vet's table, then tried to haul himself onto the nearest pair of shoulders. The second time, he squawked and tried to leg it down the other end of the table; as he had 3 people holding onto him, though, this just turned into a sideways wriggle, followed by a half-indignant, half-resigned expression complemented perfectly by a deep sigh and drooping ears.
He's spent this morning jumping in and out of a cardboard box, and ripping threads out of the study rug.
On the mend, I'd say.
No chasing (or catching) birds / mice / any combination thereof.
No going to sleep in the middle of the road, only to be woken by an irate driver hooting their car horn.
No getting up from the middle of the road, stretching lazily, turning round and going back to sleep in exactly the same spot - sending already irate driver into an absolute frenzy of hooting.
No chasing leaves across the lawn.
No scaling the fences and clambering onto the roof of Next Door's shed to survey his kingdom.
Still, the antibiotics seem to be working. At least, they are now the little sod swallows them, rather than spitting them across the kitchen with a loud "Ptooey!". They are now, you see, rubbed on the fat from the joint of meat in the fridge before being handed to him, which means he wolfs them down. He's also developed a bit of a taste for the probiotic paste the vet prescribed for him - provided he can lick it off fingers rather than have it squirted into his mouth via syringe. Fair enough.
From being listless, quiet and refusing to eat on Monday, he's now merrily bouncing off the walls, tapdancing on the kitchen worktops (despite yelps of "Luteus! No! Down!" from the Owners) and trying to eat the parlour palm. And hoovering up any food in sight - whether it's his or not.
Unfortunately, he's also had to have his temperature taken this week. Twice. The first time, he sort of slumped on the vet's table, then tried to haul himself onto the nearest pair of shoulders. The second time, he squawked and tried to leg it down the other end of the table; as he had 3 people holding onto him, though, this just turned into a sideways wriggle, followed by a half-indignant, half-resigned expression complemented perfectly by a deep sigh and drooping ears.
He's spent this morning jumping in and out of a cardboard box, and ripping threads out of the study rug.
On the mend, I'd say.
