Ophelia had her first hypoglycemic episode today. Being Ophelia, she did it in fine dramatic style. While trying to cross from the couch to my chair via the end table, she lost all coordination and slid into a small wooden trash can, landing so that she was suspended between her chin and one back leg.
And then she didn't struggle to get out.
It was unnerving. We fed her a little, and she seemed to recover, wobbling away from the food to the bedroom and crawling into the chair. Once there, she got glassy eyed and drunk looking.
Oh, and she pooped. I was carrying her back to the food to encourage more eating, and instead I got pooping. She didn't actually get ME, but it was a close thing.
So, an expensive trip to the emergency vet where they made sure she hadn't been hurt in the fall and they gave her an IV with some dextrose. They gave us some advice on helping her if her sugar drops (Kayro syrup on her gums) and said to see our vet on Monday.
Currently, she's in her little segregation pen (Calico's old crate converted to kitty use) eating some of her special diet food. It's canned food, so of course the furry sharks were circling until The Husband put out El Cheapo canned food in the kitchen. There is contentment. She's not particularly happy with the pen, but she only has to be in there while she eats and when we have to test her sugars (via little strips in her litter pan, which, of course, also must be segregated). She's currently expressing her unhappiness, but if she finished eating, I can let her out.
The drama, of course, was only intensified by me rushing out of the house IN MY PAJAMAS with The Husband and a floppy throw-rug of a cat. I have moved to the headache/disgusting cough part of my cold, still with not much voice, and a generally prickly attitude. I was picturing having her euthenized, imagining broken limbs or some such horror that are beyond our means to repair and nurse. The diabetes is quite expensive enough, thank you.
Damn it, but I love my cats.