Iggy Poop

Well, poor Iggy. When I picked him up at the vet's on Monday evening, he looked like a tattered scrap of dirty, dull, matted fake fur—diminished, demoralized, deflated. But within a few hours of being home, he began to inflate—his eyes started to shine, his body fluffed out, and he had his coat licked to a spit shine. He's still dancing in and out of the box, dropping turds and slurping away at his naughty bits, but I'm hoping that's just residual irritation from the catheter and not the beginning of a new round of troubles.

It's kind of touching, really, how much this big bully of a cat loves being home—and even weirder, loves me. Either he's grateful to me for saving his life or he's trying to ingratiate himself so I don't take him back to the vet. In any case, he's got a bad case of velcro—can't peel him off of me.

Oh, please, oh, please, oh, not-god, let this be the end of it.