Yesterday was not a great day, in the grand scheme of things. Took the lovely, reclusive Flop to the vet - her eating has been almost non-existent of late. Turns out, she has lost 20% of her weight since early July. She is a small Maine Coon, but still, a stocky, box-y girl, and we could see (and feel) the difference. But it was her running away from the food dish that had me worried.
On a good day, m-a-y-be she would eat a handful of meager bites, but then would run from the plate as if she had seen a ghost. And that seemed to have begun overnight in late June/early July. She has been reticent to approach the canned food at all - even though you could see she wanted to eat.
Well, long story short (mostly because my finger is throbbing), the vet asked me to assist by moving Flop's tongue out of the way...with my finger...while she held Flop's scruff and chin - her mouthful of teeth wide open. Against my better judgement, I did it. The next few seconds were swift and shocking.
Her jaws came together and my index finger was impaled on one tooth. When the vet finally opened Flop's mouth for me to attempt to retrieve my finger, I only partially managed to turn it off of the tooth enough so that the second bite resulted in another - even more brutal - bite, and this time it included a couple more teeth...several more holes - including cracking my nail bed.
It's excruciating, that's all I can say.
I will have to put any handwork - and cutting pieces for VG - on the backburner for a short while. So please, forgive my absence for the next several days. I'll keep you posted.
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