When I was growing up, we had an orange cat named Harvey Wallbanger. He was smart, ferocious, and had an attitude the size of Texas.
There are numerous Harvey stories--he could probably have his own blog, really--but the one I'm thinking of today is the time he had a bladder infection. How do you know when your cat has a bladder infection, you ask? Well, he pees blood. (Did I mention he used to spray inside the house from time to time?) He was put on antibiotics and kept inside. Since he normally spent his days wandering the neighborhood, terrorizing the dogs and charming the humans, we knew he was really feeling sick when he accepted bed rest.
Soon, however, the antibiotics started to work, and he began to campaign to get back outside. He tried slipping out, but in our house of many cats, we were all expert at preventing such dashes. He tried starting trouble, but we just ignored him.
Finally, he came up with a foolproof plan. My mom had just come home from a 10 hour nursing shift. In those days, nurses still wore solid white. Harvey backed up to Mom's leg and peed all over her white stockings and shoes. Then he dashed to the door and looked hopefully over his shoulder at her. He had just done The Worst Thing he could think of. SURELY he would get picked up and tossed across the patio onto the lawn, as had happened more than once in his shady past.
Much to his confusion, instead Mom just looked down at her ruined nylons and said, "Yay, no blood! He's getting better!"
It was two more days before we let him out.
Inesa had pneumonia a couple of weeks ago. Her temperature was up to 104, and we wound up visiting both urgent care and the emergency room that weekend. She perked up quickly when we got her on antiobiotics. Then this past Sunday, Sasha suddenly laid down on the couch to rest. Since he, much like Harvey, spends his time roaming the neighborhood terrorizing or charming those he encounters, we knew he was sick too. Since he didn't get pneumonia, his temperature never climbed above 102, but his fever lingered until today. We kept him close to home and dosed him regularly with children's ibuprofen. While his sister played outside, he lay on the couch watching movies.
Today, Jon took Inesa to the zoo. Sasha was disappointed that even though his temperature has fallen, we said one more day before he goes out in public.
Then he threw the entire contents of his room down the stairs. (Except, as he told the wide-eyed neighbor girl, his bed.)
I'm not sure if he was expecting me to bodily thrown him out of the house, or what, but my main response is--hey, he is clearly feeling better.
We'll let him go out tomorrow. Well, once he picks his stuff up.