Saturday insomnia blogging

So Miss Maggie, who is around 11 years old now, has what appears to be a wicked ear infection. She's always had problems with her ears. She has polyps in both ears that the vet has always said are probably congenital. Her left eye is always runny, and i would guess that the entire left side of her face has caused her some discomfort throughout her life. It seems to get worse during days of weather change, but she's usually better after a day or so. But this week I decided she should see the vet, so Mr. Brilliant took her on Friday, where there was apparently much hue and cry and kitty-screeching, as the kindly veterinarian she refers to as Dr. Mengele committed the unforgiveable crime of attempting to look at her ears, and after being unable to do so for all the gunk and blood therein, put 5 drops of Tresaderm in her ear, told Mr. B. to try giving it to her twice a day and if necessary we'll put her on painkillers.

Miss Maggie was a pretty unhappy girl when she came home, and around an hour later she started working on her ear with her paw and screaming, so off I went, careening through the streets of Bergen County at rush hour to get to the vet's office before they close to pick up painkillers.

Seventy dollars later, I walked out with five syringes of buprenorphine and instructions to give one to her every 12 hours for pain.

Buprenorphine.

Really?

For most people, drug names only have meaning to the extent that we see them on TV: Cialis. Boniva. Celebrex. Ambien. I know what buprenorphine is because in my previous job, we did studies for NIDA, and the first one after I started there was this one.

I'm supposed to give Little Baby Snookums the same thing they give detoxing junkies?

Apparently so, as I found out about a half hour ago, when I found myself evicted from bed by the very same Miss Maggie, who came up for her customary night of Spoon Mommy only to find that every spooning position resulted in pressure on her ear and a repeat of much hue and cry and drama queening.

I'm a lunatic about Things That Could Be Toxic To Cats. I don't have plants in the house because most houseplants are Toxic To Cats. After the infamous $600 Mouse Bait and Vitamin K Fracas of 2008, I refuse to have any mouse bait in or near the house, choosing instead to caulk every inch of the house where any surface meets any other surface and relying on Maggie to catch any stragglers. I spent about $400 on an echocardiogram and bloodwork before getting her teeth cleaned a few years ago because of my irrational fear that she might die on the table. This fear isn't just about Maggie, or any of the cats we've ever had. The first time I had to be sedated for an outpatient procedure, I sat in the waiting room filling out the informed consent form and weeping, certain that they would overdose me with diprivan and I would be dead in an hour.

It's times like this when I am glad I don't have children, because I would be one of those moms rushing off to the pediatrician every time the baby cries, certain that the grim reaper was right outside the door and certain that the pharmacy formulated the medicine wrong and I would unwittingly deliver an overdose.

And that is why I'm sitting here at one o'clock in the morning, pouring out my Sad Tale of Kitty Woe, fighting an upper respiratory infection and waiting for the Benadryl to kick in so that maybe I can sleep a little.

Meanwhile, say hello to Tom Degan, whom I've added to the blogroll.