Foaming at the mouth: Miss Thing has another collapse at 2:30 this morning. I haven’t been able to administer her pills, nor has she had anything to eat or drink for two days. It looks grim. We rush off to Dr. Ofer (clearly, we’ll be eating rice and beans for three months). The good news: no temperature and, while her lungs are clearly congested, they haven’t get returned to the pre-drainage state. He tries using one of those pill injectors to force a pill down her throat, and she spits it out. Three times. Then she moans, drools, and starts frothing at the mouth. The frothing is quite impressive and continues for about five minutes. I regret that I don’t have my camera with me. D. Ofer wants to run a fixed IV feed, but I refuse, knowing that Nadine would rip it out in no time. Ultimately, he sends us on our way with my purse bulging with loaded hypodermics. Only in Israel.
At home, the near-death cat bounds from her carrier, complains bitterly, stomps around, snacks, drinks water, snacks some more, and renews her grumbling. After seeing the listless, suffering, gasping wreck of the middle of the night, this is another of those miraculous come-backs.
So here we are. She’s looking thread-bare and moth-eaten. Her bones are sticking out like the back spines on a stegosaurus. Her belly, still saggy and now sporting a bizarre purple hyperpigmentation, flaps like laundry on the clothes line. So sad. But crankiness will tell—unlike sweet-tempered Rudy, who died at seven, Nadine’s nasty persona has helped her cling on and do battle with pesky bacteria. Ya gotta like her style.