Today was the day of the tooth extraction for my beloved cat Luke. Luke, since he was a kitten, has always been so proud of his upper left fang especially. His panther fangs were part of his signature look.

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Glory Days

Recently I discovered his lower left canine was in bad shape and would need to come out. Today was the fateful day he was to have that tooth extracted. I dropped him off at 9 am and was supposed to pick him up at either 3 or 5 depending on how things went. At 11 the vet called to say everything went fine and that I could get him at 3… but that they had to take three teeth rather than just the one… I’m heartbroken to say, his favorite tooth was one of them.

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Like Sampson’s hair, Luke drew his power from that tooth.

At 12:45 they called me and said that Luke really wanted to come home and asked if I could get him early. I rushed out to get him. Poor baby was so upset and confused. They showed me a video of him rolling around trying to get out of the cage. So dramatic. They assured me this was fine, that he was just confused from the drugs and he would be happier at home.

When I got him home I set the carrier on the couch and opened the door to let him come out on his own time. I stepped into the bathroom and suddenly heard a row in the living room. Annie and Luke were fighting. It was like they were never best friends at all. I separated them, first putting her in the living room and him in the bathroom. I calmed him down in the tub and took Annie out of the living room. I shut her in my bedroom and collected him from the bathroom and moved him to the living room with a bowl of water and a dish that I would later put food in and a small litter box.

Luke was basically wasted. You know when you have a wasted friend who just will not sit the fuck down even though he keeps falling over when he tries to walk? And then that friend bumps into a bar stool and cusses out the bar stool and then falls over? That was Luke. It was like he didn’t know who he was anymore. Like he didn’t know who I was or Annie was or what a couch is or a table leg. He was hissing and growling constantly. Every exhale was a low growl and anything that came close to him was something to hiss at, be it my hand or a table leg or the floor when he fell on it. He couldn’t keep his back legs straight but he just would not sit the fuck down.

Eventually he did calm down. The hissing continued but he seemed to get a little better. For all the hissing, he did not make a single move to scratch or bite. Luke, like so many drunk tough guys, is all talk.

Here he is hissing at my hand. You can see in his eyes how out of it he is.

You can also see his missing teeth on one side.

At 5 I gave him a pain pill and left for my run.

My run felt good. It was easy and even. Steady. Weezer and Offspring played in my headphones keeping me focused and on pace.

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I got home and gave him his antibiotic, a whole syringe of liquid the vet described as ‘extremely bitter’ and ‘vile’ (she said she tasted it!). She told me he would probably take it easily the first time and then learn that it is gross and it would never be easy again… I guess we’ll see tomorrow when he gets his next dose.

I know this post is almost totally about my cat and has basically two lines about running, but when you write a post a day for 31 days, sometimes you need to just talk about what’s going on. I hope you all don’t mind. ❤

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