Punks: The Post-Surgery Transition

Warning: Hilarity ahead. Also, I have a potty mouth, so there be F-bombs.

My cat, Punks, had surgery on September 12, 2018. The procedure went better than expected. Where they thought it would take a long time—and thus be extremely expensive, because they thought the tumor on her back had grown roots—it turns out, it popped out like a giant zit with little effort, and I ended up paying roughly half the initial estimate.

Punks is doing extremely well. She spent the night at the animal hospital because I was such a nervous wreck leading up to her surgery date that I needed an entire day to catch up on sleep. But, when I got her home, I had no idea it was going to be such a wild ride.

Here are some pics! Click on the image for the full size.

Her stitches. It kind of looks like she’s getting ready for a saddle, or some shit.

After Surgery: A very drugged out, confused kitten high on pain killers.

Before Surgery: You can clearly see the lump from her tumor here.

The tumor. Turns out it was a lipoma, and it’s “taller” than it is round in the picture.

Now that you know she’s doing just fine, healing well, the surgery went perfect, and she’s currently no longer high from the 72-hour pain shot they gave her before discharging her, it’s time to get into my current insanity.

Note: For future reference, Punks used to be shy, skittish, very gentle, and quiet unless she couldn’t find me (like when I go to bed, and she needs me to call her, because apparently she can’t remember where my bed is each night unless I lead her there with my voice).

Since Punks has come home from the veterinarian’s, she’s been not just super loving, she’s been aggressively loving.

I’m talking about headbutts that knock her over, purring so hard that she goes adorably hoarse, and swatting me when she wants petted after petting me for five minutes (and receiving massive pettings!) telling me exactly what she wants. Apparently, I wasn’t doing it right.

Now, Punks is doing good. She’s back to her old self, but is still super affectionate. Almost like she’s trying to butter me up to never take her to the vet’s again.

And, the zoomies. Good God.

For fuck’s sake, no one ever told me that after my cat was done being high, she would have constant zoomies for hours before passing the fuck out for a few hours, eating, shitting, and revving up for yet more zoomies. All day. Erryday. I’m dying. It sounds like a herd of fucking horses galloping through my all wood home.

Oh, and God forbid I try to fucking sleep. I get all comfy, and my cat (I swear someone’s slipping her speed every day when I’m passed the fuck out) jumps on me, turns in exactly four circles, hops down, and decides my hands are filthy and in need of her expert cleaning. Then! THEN, she starts petting me. PETTING. ME. And won’t stop until I pet her. Then, she hops down from my bed, ZOOMS THROUGH THE ENTIRE HOUSE, and back up the stairs, sounding like the hounds of hell are coming for me in the night, and leaps back onto the bed, purring her fucking sadistic heart out, and being all abominably cute and shit, and won’t stop petting me until SHE’S done being petted. And only then, ONLY THEN, will she allow me to sleep.

BUT WAIT. THERE’S MORE! Because, an hour later, she gets the ZOOMIES AGAIN! And it’s time to play! She zooms around the house for ten minutes, jumps into the center of my back, because by now, I’m trying to suffocate myself on the pillow just to get some sleep, and she’s like, “NAW, BITCH! I WANT LOVE!” And, she’ll serenade me for twenty minutes, singing me the song of her people until she finally, FINALLY lays her ass down, exhausted, and passes the fuck out.

Then I roll over, and WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT? She gets up, pissed because HOW DARE HER HUMAN MOVE AND DISTURB HER FUCKING BEAUTY REST, HUFFS AT ME LIKE I’M SOME FUCKING CREATON WITH NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN TO JOSTLE THE BED, SMACKS MY HAND, LEAPS OFF THE BED, AND FUCKS OFF DOWNSTAIRS TO SLEEP ALONE.

I get that she’s probably repaying me for forcing her to spend more than 36 hours in a veterinary hospital with barking dogs. I understand. I’m an introvert, too. Still…

ALSO. The fucking shit decided she’s no longer scared of mice and chases them around the house AWAY FROM the fucking mouse traps when they come out of their hidey holes. So, yeah. She has free entertainment. Usually either when I’m so engrossed in something that it scares the piss out of me, or when I’m trying to sleep and it sounds like I’ve got a house full of demons and poltergeists.

I think the vet gave her a brain transplant when they removed the tumor. Or, that tumor contained all her fucking inhibitions.

What do you think?

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