Fucking April

We came home this afternoon to find Vaca, our long-haired cowboy cat lying in the mud in the ditch by the side of the road. We rushed him to the vet, where our good friend Dr. Dan checked him over. While there's no external trauma and no obvious breaks in the x-rays, Vaca's paralyzed from about two thirds of the way along his spine on back.

He's home now, lying on a towel in the bathroom next to food and water, after taking a good bite out of my hand and swipe out of Dan's upper arm at the office. We're hoping that there's just some bruising compressing his spinal cord and that the steroids and anti-inflamatories he's on will reduce that swelling and get him back on his feet.

If that doesn't work, though, but he's still eating, drinking, and not in terrible pain, then we'll have a wheelchair cat. Like I told the Wife, if one of us became paralyzed, we'd figure out how to deal with it. It's the same thing for the four-legged members of our family.

Oh, but that that were all for April.

This morning, I buried the car pretty much up to the axel in the mud in our yard, trying to get it out of the way for the truck I borrowed for a dump run. I lot my temper, snapped at the Wife, then wound up paying $83 and change for a twenty-foot tow.

At the beginning of the month, Molly was recovering from a near fatal cut to her forearm. She's fine, now, so that's good, but jeesh.

Last year this time, we had a chimney fire, the deck stairs collapsed under me giving me a nice little ride on sharp wood edges, and the Wife put a nail pretty much *through* her foot.

So here're three cheers for April. Ending.