Worst.cat.mom.ever.

Who, you may ask, is deserving of such a lofty title? Why, that'd be me.

And how might I have earned such a unique place in my own blog? Well, for starters, I'm supposed to be a fairly observant pet owner (or she-servant, as I think the pets refer to me behind my back). Theoretically I keep a reasonable eye on them for signs of illness or distress, and to this day I'm still delusional enough to believe that I do a pretty good job of it.

So how did I miss seeing that Weeble's dewclaw had grown into her foot until this weekend? 

Mom done me wrong!

 
There she was, dozing on the bed, just like she pretty much always does in the mornings, what with her twelfth birthday just a few months away. I went in to rub her sleepy head and as she stretched out her leg  realized I was seeing an awfully large swath of claw on her left leg. It took another fifteen seconds or so to realize that the reason I was seeing so much was because her nail was completely exposed as it rounded back over her pad and disappeared into her skin.

Seeing her foot, I felt two inches tall.

How long did it take for this to happen? Why hadn't she complained more, or done more limping? Geez, try to stay in bed for ten minutes past 5 a.m. and she'll act like the house is on fire, but have a claw work its way back into her body and not a peep.

We tried to clip it on Saturday, in an effort to relieve the pressure of it all being attached, but the Weebs is a hideous patient and the claw is really pressed against her leg, so I only got about halfway through. On Sunday, we gave it another go. This time I was able to clip the claw itself, but when it came time to try and pull out the part that is embedded I chickened out, for lack of decent enough tools and hearing the conviction of her yowls as I put any real pressure on her foot. I decided I'd rather pay someone else than to further be the first-hand inflicter of pain --- someone who might actually know what they are doing and has access to drugs should they decide it's not good marketing if the folks in the waiting room think they've decided to reduce the cost of surgery by not using anesthesia.


She heads to the vet Tuesday afternoon, which will be a highly traumatic event for her (and apparently for me as well). Thus far, just for trying to clip the nail she has refused to sleep in her normal spot for the past two nights, such is her delicate little psyche.

By the time she gets home from the vet, she'll probably move into Darby's bedroom with him.