I’ve got a developing case of kitty anxiety. I noticed while I was brushing Dr. Amy Jones the other day that she had a hard little bump under the fur near her right shoulder My first thought was that it was her microchip so I took care not to touch it. Today I noticed that I could actually see the place where it was without touching her, because it displaced her fur a bit. I held her under the desk lamp and checked it out. It’s sorta hard and dry and yellowish, about the size of maybe half my pinky nail. It didn’t seem to hurt her but she didn’t like me touching it too much. (I also think she’s been more vocal with the meowing lately, but maybe I’m just being paranoid.) Anyway, I was pretty sure it’s just a scab, but I thought maybe I’d call the vet just to make sure. Well, that woman freaked me out. She was like, “It’s not the microchip. Those are, like, granular. You should definitely bring her in. Can you bring her in tonight? Ooh, maybe the weekend would be better in case we have to operate.” I’m like, “WHAT? OPERATE?! I think it’s just a scab!” And she was like, “Cats are very prone to abscesses. They can fill up with pus. You should bring her in so we can check her and put her on antibiotics.” So we’re booked in for tomorrow night. The rational part of my brain (and the Snook) insists that she just poked herself climbing around under the dining room table or something, and it’s just a harmless little scab, but the manic little paranoid bit keeps screaming that it’s probably some kitty tumor and she’ll have to have surgery and get shaved and eat weird food and be in all sorts of pain. Which is totally irrational, right?