Cole's enthusiastic [i]ghostwriter[/i] wrote:
Cole stands up in his kennel, whimpering at how strangely that shepherd was acting..
What's happening with that shepherd dog?
The husky calls down to Blood.
Has he gotten sick or something?
Is that going to be what is going to happen to all of us?
He says whining sadly..
Hey Cat! What have they been doing to you?
He calls all the way down the row of kennels.
Carlito, contemplatively slumped over the edge of his bunk, rose his head up to glance past the adjacent hallway, typically locking his eccentric gaze to the beckoning husky. For a moment, the notion of his broad-minded question enacted for the perturbed pet to shiver uneasily while, grasping both of his elbows, recalling of neurosurgery, a practice that was mentioned a day afterwards of its successful procedure.
"...I...can't say for sure," he said.
Diagnosed shortly after he had succumbed to the sedatives without much infliction, the dragonoids, responsible for conducting the operation, had exposed prior speculations to be confirmed, handling the results to be shown on a large, levitating screen besides the several monitors, which were all fixated on different angles of Carlito's body, pin-pointing all natural relationships to his case history of past experiences.
The large screen had heavily emphasized on a visual representation of one of these events, transpiring four years prior. Revolving around an unconscious cat, one to be referred to as a parlor panther at the time, that would continue to lay over the sheets of the bed belonging to the room, adjacent to very few other neighboring pets, whom were all struggling to cope and deal with their own independent conditions. Standing beside the comatose pet was a middle-aged man, a veterinarian, and another whom was referred to as Mr. Velázquez by the former, presumably for being the owner of the sickened bombay. Befallen by a malignant poison, personally confirmed by the dragonoids to have originated from a discretely-placed toxin, one that was concealed within a tampered beverage before it's inevitable consumption, Mr. Velázquez begged for an immediate solution, personifying an unlikelihood of himself, one that would eventually cease to draw ever again. Diego Velázquez persisted on throwing worrisome tantrums, such as those that would enable inexperienced nurses to be anxious and nervous, he was eventually implored to calm down, assured that a diagnosis would eventually arrive and, thus, a resolve for the patient. Unbeknownst to the cooperative owner, at the time, the infamous toxin would inevitably be counteracted at a successful rate, but at an unfortunately terrible cost, according to his veterinarian doctors ; following day-to-day observations, the pet was speculated to remain motionless for several months to come, unexpected to awaken a year afterwards under a different guise, enough to stir confusion amongst several contributing specialists. Aside from that the toxin ceased to retain an ever-lasting impact onto the cat's central nervous system, rendered his sight to be sensitive, once recuperated out of his comatose state. Unable to distinguish himself just as much as his former doctors, it was then determined that, a year later, the pet miraculously lost the natural hue of his fur, categorized as another long-term effect that would be, unfortunately, permanent. This transpired over the course of his slow recuperation, though, given that this was of a year-long interval, how this remained to be withheld in unawareness befell to become another miraculous wonder.
As the screen flickered before the diligent, albeit observative dragonoids, whom had forever discarded personal skepticism and confusion upon confirmation that the American Bombay would eventually turn out to become the cat that now lay in the operating table, would now commence to effectively counteract against these long-term effects, for the sake of their benefits. Assistants would disclose relative, but trivial information regarding the Bombay which, in addition to other viable details of the procedural process, would then be briefly explained to him.
Barely noticeable, the blue gel that once ran across the back of Carlito's head would effectively tend to its designated scar, inevitably mending it. Ridding of the malevolent, long-term impacts, which were also disclosed to him, Carlito was now forever grateful towards the dragonoids soon after their procedural announcement. Despite the fact that the color of his fur would forever remain to be so, the dragonoids had communicated, through mental imaging, that his eyes, on the other hand, were contingent to be restored to their former status. Just as anticipated, the decision was given to Carlito to contemplate over, which, at the moment, was exactly what he was doing while glancing over to Cole, a smile fairly visible over his muzzle.
"...And please, quit yellin'. Your barking is bound to give me a headache," he sarcastically remarked.
