Everything was stowed for travel. One of the slides was already in. I was just about ready to leave Port Orchard, Washington, for Oregon to spend the month of June.

Then, I looked down at Boss Tweed. From above, his abdomen was so distended it look like he was wearing saddlebags. I ran my hands down his sides, and his stomach was rigid and tight. He let out a small cry of pain.

Boss didn’t keep his breakfast down that morning, and I was already contemplating finding a vet in the Portland area; he had been throwing up quite a bit for the last few days. My friend Trudy, a vet tech for over 30 years and in whose driveway I was encamped, recommended I call the local vet.

It was Saturday, and my first choice could not work us into the schedule. I called another clinic, where they took us right away. Blood work was normal. He had no fever. Even his white blood cell count was not elevated. But, his stomach was so bloated and painful that they could not scan it. It was clear something serious and life-threatening was afoot, and they recommended emergency care.

The two closest clinics were in Tacoma, about a half hour away. I chose the closest one. Trudy‘s husband Izzy, sensing my anxiety, offered to drive us and keep me company.

There are few places more depressing than an emergency veterinary clinic on the weekend. It was approximately 5:00 p.m. when we arrived. A sign on the wall estimated wait times in hours, a stack of laminated numbers nearby; the number 4 was currently is use.

The lobby television provided dismal distraction, blaring an extended cable reality show about veterinarians. Surgery was currently underway on screen. A woman sat nearby, alone and softly weeping. The soda vending machine was empty. An elderly woman inquired testily about how much longer it was going to take for X-rays. “It’s already been a half hour!“ A couple entered with a nervous and vocal German Shepherd who would not be soothed. A girl in shorts sat with a Chihuahua on her lap, his penis fully extended. As he whined about his inability to retract it, she nervously and repeatedly used a tissue to wipe both his little member and the pale skin of her leg free from spooge. A vet tech emerged to return a heavily soiled, extra large pet bed to a worried owner, passing it to him like a furry, foul taco without apology or even so much as a plastic bag. Taking the side exit and crying uncotrollably, a couple carried the remains of their beloved companion in a Hefty bag to their car.

The local clinic telephoned ahead, and Boss was triaged right away. The receptionist, expecting us and glancing at Name Of Pet on the form, referred to me as “Miss Tweed.”

There was no doubt he needed exploratory surgery. It was made very clear that the surgeon would not be called to come in for the procedure until a $6,000 deposit was paid. While I totally understood, it still felt mercenary somehow.

I would never have forgiven myself if Boss died without the exploratory surgery to determine the source of the problem. However, I signed a Do Not Resuscitate and instructed the vet to euthanize him during the procedure if there were obvious signs of cancer.

At that point there was nothing to do but go home and wait. As the hours passed I safely assumed Boss, approximately 10 years old, was not riddled with cancer as I had feared. The phone finally rang at 10:00 p.m. Some sort of sharp object punctured the stomach days before, causing gastric contents to leak into the abdomen. He had a septic belly. The surgeon commented that Boss deflated like a balloon, with an audible wooshing sound, when he was cut open. They looked and looked for a foreign object and even flushed the cavity with two liters of saline, but whatever it was likely passed in the stool.

The prepaid deposit included at least two days of postoperative care, but by noon on Sunday, the office asked me to come collect the Boss Man. “He lays on his back in the kennel and rubs his face against it and meows like he wants us to pet him, and when we open the door he tries to kill us!” That’s my Boss Man. He’s a big old lover, but he’s pretty feisty when he’s unhappy. And cages are the worst. He was at the cat shelter for over two months because his kennel card noted he bit volunteers, but I knew he was a misunderstood sweetie pie. Boss has never bitten me.

He was in pretty rough shape when I got there, growling at everyone, including me. I chuckled at the op report: “Aggressive/growls/spits and strikes … Fractious cat requiring sedation.”

He was hungry. I brought one of his favorite foods in a can, and he lapped it up. He could go home.

The first couple of days were tough, while Boss was still on pain medications and wearing a cone, bumping into everything and scooping up litter when he went potty. Rocket & Pinkie warily sniffed him and stayed close, fretting.

By Postoperative Day Three Trudy fashioned a recovery/compression garment out of the sleeve of an old sweatshirt, and Boss could move more freely around the motorhome, clean himself, and more easily use the litter box.

As I write this now, Big Boss Man is no longer wearing the shirt, his appetite is in high gear, and he is using the litter box with no problems. Histology of the dissected portion of the punctured stomach revealed no cancer. Tissue cultures were also normal.

Boss’s recovery has been astounding, and it looks like my little buddy is going to be around for a while longer. I got a bit of money back from that deposit, by the way. The RV park in Portland changed my reservation to a June 17 arrival and did not charge any fees. If this had to happen, I am thankful it happened while I was still in Port Orchard with supportive and knowledgeable friends, instead of somewhere out on the plains of the Midwest.

Some of you already knew about this because you follow me on Facebook; thank you for all the concerned and thoughtful comments, suggestions, and positive vibes.