It's been about a week since this even occurred, yet I feel I must inform my tiny reading public about the craziness that is my life. Or, more specifically, the craziness that is my cat.
Last Tuesday night, I was cross-stitching (a new hobby that Alby taught me. . .but instead of stitching cute fluffy bunnies and hearts, we stitch things like "Life Sucks And Then You Die") and I set my needlework down for (no joke) about 20 seconds to go to the other room. I come back, and see Napoleon chewing on something. Now, this is not a new sight; he's always eating something he's not supposed to, and he chews on everything (including hair, tennis shoes, and the occasional rubber band.) I go to take whatever it is he's trying to ingest out of his mouth, and as I pry it open, I see the tail end of my SEWING NEEDLE. I start freaking out and try to grab it, but one swift gulp and the down it went. I FLIPPED. He goes into the kitchen and lays down, quite content with himself. I start calling the vet, and eventually get a hold of a place in Tustin (about an hour drive from my house) where they can do an intricate scoping procedure: they stick a camera down into poor anesthetized Napoleon's stomach and attempt to locate and remove the needle with a little claw instrument. I tell them I'll be there right away. This is around 7:30 PM.
I speed like a bat out of hell to Tustin, Napoleon in the backseat in his carrier meowing like the devil because he hates car rides. . .and in my perpetual 85 MPH zone, I reach Tustin in a half an hour. They check him in and after they take x-rays, they show me the picture of the needle in his stomach. I start to lose it and cry. . .I felt so damn stupid leaving that needle out, even for a moment. The doctor explains that they're going to try the scope, and if that doesn't work, they will have to open him up and do surgery, which scares me even more. "This will take about 2 hours," they say, "so you can go home if you'd like and we'll call you when we're done." By the time I would get back to Upland, it would be time to turn around and come back again. . .plus I can't bear the thought of leaving Napoleon. So I spent the next 3 hours sitting in the waiting room and relating Napoleon's latest adventure to friends and family outside on my cell. Eventually, the doctor comes out with a little plastic baggie containing. . .the needle (with blue thread still attached) that they were able to successfully retrieve out of Napoleon's stomach. The vet told me that he was doing well, although he was a bit loopy coming out of his anaesthesia and that he was "biting the doctors, "biting his own leg" (which they had to shave to put the IV in) and "biting at the air." Crazy bastard. I love him to death.
We eventually made out way home at around 1AM, $700 later (thank God for the AmEx with no limit.) he rubbed against my leg and purred incessantly, as if to say, "I don't know what I did wrong, woman, but I'll never do it again." In true Napoleon fashion, he slept on my head that night. . .my fluffy, heavy, purring orange hat.
The next day after hearing my story, Georgia gave me some sage advice: "Stacey, no matter HOW smart you think your cat is, don't EVER try and teach him to cross-stitch again!"
I think I'll follow that advice.