When the neurologist recommended an MRI, I knew it was going to be costly. My options were: 1) forgo the tests and just assume that my increasingly freaky migraines were not related to a brain tumor or 2) know they were not. I wanted to know. So did my husband. And we were vaguely aware that knowing was going to dent the ole pocketbook.
What we didn’t quite grasp was that it would dent it to the tune of $1,500. After insurance.
I’ve been staring at the online claim summary, trying to do one of those Magic Eye things where if I stare hard enough the real number would magically appear, floating over the backdrop, gloriously containing one fewer zero. And it doesn’t. Though, frankly, that shouldn’t surprise me since I have heretofore been unsuccessful at discerning any Magic Eye poster ever.
Fifteen hundred dollars for the brain doctor to say, “Well, things look good.” He found some (for lack of a more technical term) scarring consistent with migraines, then turned me loose and told me to come back in six months. If in six months he wants another test, we’re gonna have words. About bills. And how fancy brain doctors are probably way better suited to paying these fancy bills than very unfancy marketing and computer programmer folks.
One mortgage payment + one half of a mortgage payment = 30 minutes in a really loud tube under a blanket of insufficient thickness.
The hell. If I were less than fine, I wouldn’t resent it, I’m sure. I’d have lots of other medical bills to resent along with it, so you know, drop in the bucket. But as it is, I’m fine and wondering if these people have payment plans. Surely. I mean, what can do they do if (ha ha. read: when) I can’t cough it up? Repo the MRI? Telepathically cast lesions onto my brain?
That would be a skill, now wouldn’t it? Like Vader crushing that one dude’s throat with his mind.
Here’s where I talk about healthcare reform but, like so many other things that are messed up with this country, it’s sorta a big, fat duh.
In other, much less whiny news, I have worn lipstick all day long today, just like a real grown up. It’s not even flavored! How’s that for leaf turning? It’s like I won’t even need any New Years resolutions – I’m the model of self improvement a full month early. Bam!
This spring, I’m going to be an auntie again (must. contain. the exclamation. points)! This time, though, it will be a driving distance baby. A baby I can snuggle after 3 hours of Glee playlists and one potty break at a rest stop of questionable cleanliness. Our own brood is still a couple of years off (the Dork Lord will be transferring to SMU in the fall and I probably don’t have to tell you that an infant + husband working/in school full time = one of those poor crazy ladies that end up on the news) so this is just the kind of squeeee! I live for. If only I could be more patient about it. Every day I email my sister and ask if the baby is ready. Every day she tells me, “Not yet.” Is there no fast-track program for kid making? If anyone is eligible, she is, so let’s get on with it!
Anyway, for a bit I was able to focus some of my energies on making her baby announcement, which as distracting for about ten minutes. (See? This is why I need so many orphaned kittens!)
Oh, you guys, I don’t even have an excuse for all this non-blogging I’ve been doing. This is probably the sixth or seventh post I’ve started in the last couple weeks – I just can’t get interested in it. But boy howdy, enough is enough and I’m gonna give it a solid try. Like, posting every single day. So. Here we go.
The Dork Lord and I are on week three of a three week cleanse. Which means… well, it means many things, but primarily it means that it’s been over two weeks since I’ve had a cup of coffee. No sugar? No big deal. No alcohol, bread or dairy? Eh, okay. But coffee? Even on a normal, non-restrictive day, I could shamelessly open-mouth kiss a cup of really good coffee in front of a crowd of impressionable school children, so you can imagine how lusty I feel right about now. Two weeks ago, I was feeling a little more murderous than lusty, but thankfully, my desire to stab people has decreased exponentially with each passing caffeine free day.
I know, I know. What kind of weirdos go on a cleanse during the holidays? These weirdos. The ones who were breaking zippers and on the verge of investing in wardrobes based solely on elastic waistbands. The ones who packed on 20lbs since they got married a short six months ago. And right after we wrap up the cleanse and our innards are free of toxins, we hop right into a 30 day fitness program and hopefully, be wearing our elastic-free jeans by New Years having celebrated every major winter holiday on lean protein and lots and lots of organic vegetables.
Meanwhile, I lick your empty coffee cup when you step away from your desk.
This week Midge got very sick, I had an MRI, Midge got better, the Dork Lord got a 96 on his calculus test, we had 14 trick-or-treaters and two extra cats joined us on the patio for breakfast this morning. Two large males. Pretty sure I’m not going to be able to relieve them of their testicles by petting them into submission so the ante in this little Control the Feral Cat Population game has just been upped.
We also got word that my brother-in-law, whom we have not met, will be visiting us next weekend while he’s stationed in Oklahoma City for training. I’m so excited! And not because he looks like My Military Ken Doll or anything. But come on, that’s hard to beat. Even my two-year-old niece Penny, who can parrot the names of each of her aunts and their spouses, has chosen the new guy as a clear favorite. She now answers, “Shane!” to the question, “Who is Heather/Audrey/Joyce married to?” Nevermind the guy is married to my sister Nora. Naturally, it’s the uniform.
At any rate, the Dork Lord loves when a brother-in-law sleeps over – it means staying up late talking about computers/sports/video games and whatever other things I mostly nod and smile about – so we’re pretty excited.
Now that we have Midge back operating at 97% Obnoxious, our household should be relatively chaotic (which is our version of calm) for a while. On Sunday, she crawled up on the couch with us, snuggled into the down comforter and went to sleep. And then she didn’t move all day. Our evening went a little something like this:
Living Room, 6PM
Me: Something’s wrong with Midge.
Him: Nothing is wrong with Midge.
Me: But she hasn’t moved! All day!
Him: She’s fine. She’s a cat. They’re lazy. It’s what they do.
Me: Okay.
Living Room, 7PM
Me: Something’s really wrong with Midge. Hal sleeps all day. Midge wreaks havoc. She’s not wreaking havoc. Cats can’t say “I don’t feel so good,” they just stop being normal.
Him: Midge. Is. Fine.
Me:Nuzzles kitten. This cat has a fever! Midge has a fever. Feel how warm she is!
Him: She’s been sleeping in a down comforter. Of COURSE she’s warm.
Me: Okay.
Living Room, 9PM
Me:Bursting into tears. There’s something wrong with Midge and you’re NOT PAYING ATTENTION! Cry, cry, blow nose.
Him: Would you like me to take her to the vet in the morning?
Me: Okay.
Vet’s office, 8:30 AM the following morning
Him: My wife is not happy. I want to make my wife happy.
Vet: Yes, let’s do that. Examines cat. Your cat is very sick. She has a 105 degree fever.
I have held off on the I Told You So routine that would ordinarily accompany this kind of situation because one) knowing that the kitten was indeed very sick did not make me feel gloaty and two) he already owed me an I Told You So about something else so I figured eh, let’s call it even.
Besides, when she was sick, he made a down comforter nest in the middle of our bed and plopped her cat carrier down in it so we could co-sleep with her while she was getting well. Ten points for Gryffindor.
I talk about cats a lot. People who stumble on the blog or twitter have started to get the notion that I’m some kind of cat hoarder. Then they send me emails about how I need to get out of my house and how I will, inevitably, die alone. I kid you not. So, should you be one of those stumblers and feel inclined to send me such a message, this post is for you.
We were a one cat household, not some cat hoarder den of crazy. Well, actually, until January, we were a one cat/one dog household but we lost the dog to the tragedy of old age.
When we bought our home in the spring, we didn’t move in for almost two months while we undertook some rather ambitious renovations. During this time I one, got very good at using a caulk gun and two, happened to notice that we were surrounded by cats. Feral cats. Not strays – these cats (with the exceptions of a gigantic white male who can be seen in possession of a collar and tag as well as a giant set of kitten-makin’ balls) had never been anybody’s pet and were likely born in the same yards they now prowled.
One day in early May, while we were scraping paint for what had to be the 70th hour, I looked out the window and saw the cutest little ball of fluff bouncing around in the bushes. Immediately I knew I needed to hug this little ball of fluff so outside I ran to introduce myself to its mother.
“Hello, Mama Cat!” I said, crouching down and offering a hand. “I’m very nice and I would like to hug the guts out of your baby.”
Somehow it had escaped me that a feral cat wouldn’t be all that enthusiastic about letting me do anything to her baby, much less give it the Lennie treatment. I got the clue, though, what with all the hissing and growling. When we moved in a week or two later, I started putting out dry cat food for the angry Mama Cat because I wasn’t certain whether she had a predictable food source and a nursing mother should have at least that. She ate the food but she was not my biggest fan.
Two weeks later when we got home from our honeymoon, I spotted that same ball of fluff, laid out on the concrete in the heat of the day, moving only when the mockingbirds began dive-bombing her from the trees. Enough, I thought. All it took was an outstretched hand and that little kitten came running. She was bones and fleas. Off we went to the vet and when we came home, my husband called her Midget; at six weeks old, she weighed less than a pound. And that’s when Midge came to live with us and we became a two cat household.
That’s also when I decided to do something about the uncared-for cat population on our street. And I would start with Mama Cat. I contacted a local rescue, KittiCo, who told me that I could borrow a quote/unquote humane trap, catch her, bring her in and they would spay and release. But after I emailed back for details, I never heard from them again. Which was all fine and dandy – I couldn’t bring myself to frighten an animal by trapping it in a metal cage. I don’t see that as humane and I didn’t have it in me. But I also couldn’t stand the idea of Mama, who couldn’t have been a year old, popping out litter after litter.
The best thing about the timing, though, was that Mama Cat was already working on another litter. Ha. Ha. Haaaaaaa. Yay.
Anyway, I decided when I took Mama to the vet, it would be because she let me pick her up and take her there. When my vet heard my plan, he was not thrilled.
“Be careful,” he said. “Feral cats can be very tough.”
“Whatever,” I thought. “I can be very tough.”
What I meant was stubborn. Every morning and every evening for the next several weeks, I sat on our driveway and fed Mama Cat from a bowl that I started out by placing six feet away, then four, then two, then right at my side. By the time she was eating next to me, she was also letting me scratch her back. Then she introduced me to her babies: two seriously cute little ladies (around four weeks old, by my guess) who were not so thrilled to be called to dinner while I sat nearby, but they were not given a choice. Morning after morning and night after night I sat on the driveway being eaten alive by ants and mosquitoes and sweating through my clothes. The heat of the summer drove us all to do some desperate things, and Mama was no exception – by the end of July, a combination of hard earned trust and desperation made her willing to lie belly up on the driveway and let me rub ice water into her fur. She began waiting for me at the front door, sometimes calling for me to come out.
Mama Cat became Mama Cass. Today, she lives on our back patio and not only lets me pick her up and hug her (okay, “lets” is a strong word. She tolerates it), she sits in my lap, nuzzles me and as of this week, has started leaving me presents. Two very dead, very neatly displayed robins.
Back in the second week of August, one of Cass’ kittens got sick. I found her dying in the bushes. And that’s when Vera came to live in our bathroom, then master bedroom and then, lucky thing, permanently at my mother in law’s house.
And then there was one. One totally effing terrified-of-humans kitten, who was still nursing. When she had weaned that final kitten, I calmly picked up Mama Cass, put her in a cat carrier and took her to the vet. Because she let me.
But until a few weeks ago, the last baby cat (who we cleverly call The Baby Cat) wouldn’t even climb onto the patio to eat until I was back inside the house, watching from the utility room window. That’s when I started giving her the Mama Cass Treatment. Every night and every morning, I sit on the patio, food bowls at my knees and I do not move until she has finished. I built them a shelter out of a re-purposed storage bin and got downright gleeful when I watched Baby Cat crawl out of it the next morning, stretching and yawning. I began sneak-attack petting. And then sneak-attack hugging. And this morning, I picked her up, plopped her into a cat carrier and took her to be vaccinated and spayed. She, uh, sort of let me.
“This,” I told the kitten as I petted her nervous little head, “is what they call winning.”
(Unless, of course, you’re speaking financially, because I don’t know how winning my husband would say it feels to have spent almost twelve hundred dollars on cats who are not actually your pets but it’s like I told him: “doing the right thing isn’t usually convenient. Besides, you were warned. For every time you re-watch the NBA finals, I will rescue another kitten.” He told me I’d better start looking for a cat lady scholarship.)
And I know, believe me, I know that these feral cats are not my pets. But despite all the knowing and how often I repeat “they are wild animals,” my attachment to them is very deep and I was awfully relieved when the vet just called to say all has gone very well and that we can bring her home this evening.
“Does she have a name,” he asked.
“Oh, um, Baby Cat?”
“Well, why don’t you work on a name so we can get her rabies vaccination registered.”
So, taking my cues from Dirty Dancing, our “Baby” has just been named Frances – after the first lady in the cabinet. Or Frances “Baby” Houseman. Whatever. It’s a real grown up name.
Today is the first day in eleven that I haven’t had a headache and I’m celebratin’ with a blog post.
Two Sundays ago, I got knocked down with a migraine so gnarly that the sound of my husband making chocolate milk at the other end of the house felt like that spoon was bouncing around tink, tink, tink inside every bone of my face. Then it never really went away. On Thursday, after a second migraine (this time, at work) that made my left foot go numb, I went to see a neurologist, who ordered an MRI and prescribed some sort of miracle, migraine killing drug. The kicker is, the drug is a compound only made at two pharmacies in the whole of Dallas/Fort Worth and wouldn’t be ready until… today. And in the meantime, I had to stop taking over-the-counter crap because, get this, it causes “rebound headaches.” So with ear plugs jammed into my ears and bags of frozen Brussels sprouts pressed into my left eye socket (what? the ice packs never resurfaced after our move) I watched the World Series and waited for the MRI that has to be approved and scheduled by my insurance company. I expect that to happen sometime around retirement.
What’s most frustrating, I mean, aside from constantly being able to feel my heart beat in my brain, the headaches do a really good job of making me stupid. I lose my train of thought, can’t seem to remember work-essential vocabulary words and I get so busy reminding myself to breathe in and out, basic literacy escapes me. It is not pretty.
But today I feel normal. And since any paranormal powers in the Universe responsible for jinxes and related silliness are all tied up in baseball right now, I think it’s safe to risk saying the headache is gone.
And speaking of baseball…
How’d you like that transition? Thanks. I worked hard on it.
With the Rangers in the World Series, I’m listening to a lot more sports radio on the way to work instead of my iPod. This morning, I happened to catch a segment the Ticket calls, “Women Say the Darndest Things About Sports.” The gem of this 5 minute trip down Condescension Street was an email from a dude who says he put a bunch of effort into coercing his wife into watching sports with him – with the singular goal that she say something revealing her lack of sports knowledge, thus giving him material to submit to the show. So he can have 45 seconds of fame. By making fun of his wife.
Wow, guy. Just wow. We’ll check back in on your marriage in a few years and see how it’s holding up.
The incredibly patronizing “Women Say” segment did a great job of highlighting what I don’t like about sports broadcasting and fandom:
Sports knowledge does not equate to intelligence. I’m always a little baffled by the Sports Genius who is ignorant about so, so many other things (world events, finances, literature, HOW TO OPERATE SMALL HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES) and yet behaves as though his sports knowledge makes him somehow erudite. You big scholar, you.
Many, many sports rules are not logical. When the Sports Naive asks why something happens the way it does, the Duh tone that accompanies the answer is absolutely ridiculous. I give my Dork Lord much credit for never, ever assuming the Duh tone with me. You don’t get to be patronizing about a past-time that fully supports wearing seven-day-dirty drawers as a talisman against losing. You just don’t.
Sports broadcasting often panders to sexism. Because it can. Because bucket loads of sports fans don’t see anything wrong with it. They’re likely the same ones still screaming feminine pejoratives at the TV when their heroic sports icon doesn’t quite live up to his bazillion dollar pay, too. That’s one of my favorites. A wide receiver with too many dropped passes doesn’t just really suck at his job, he’s a pussy. If he’s down too long after a hit, he’s not engaging in histrionics, he’s a whiny bitch. In sports, when a man is under-performing, he’s equated to a woman. Nice, right? All I can say is, may the good lord bless you all with daughters. And someday, may some poor fool go on national radio and talk about your little girl like she’s a halfwit.
Every once in a while, when the store doesn’t quite have what I’m looking for, I make my own greeting cards. Today, I took a whole hour for lunch (the luxury!) and worked on these for my stinky little Skype buddies – my nephew Owen and my niece Penny who are turning three and two, respectively. Man, I love those kids. Theirs are likely the only cards that will arrive on time this year – no stamp required!
I don’t really buy into causes. I think it’s because, on a day-to-day, choice-by-choice basis, I try really hard to do The Right Thing and stubbornly expect other folks should be doing the same. And, it follows, if we’re all doing that – being good – we shouldn’t need causes. How d’ya like that logic?
Mostly, though, causes are just really annoying. Pit-marked by tunnel vision and awkward, naive passion not wholly unlike the post-adolescent variety that made you wail Indigo Girls lyrics into the dashboard of your parents’ American made auto (don’t say you didn’t), causes can be really exhausting and frankly, a bit embarrassing, for anybody who happens to be stuck in the passenger seat.
I mean, god love ya for all your feelings, but shut up already.
When I say I try really hard to do The Right Thing, I mean, I’m still a gigantic mess of a human being who makes mistakes and, if we’re being honest here,
is not very good at recycling outside of the office
uses paper products instead of a towel or sponge too often
does not check the label before buying things made in China
manages to leave her reusable shopping bags at home on shopping day like, 93% of the time
Among other things (oh, the glorious spectrum that is my imperfection).
What’s more, my motivation for doing The Right Thing doesn’t have as much to do with the greater good as it does a fear of consequences. Simply, doing The Right Thing means I’m not doing The Wrong Thing. And for me, there’s a lot of safety in that kind of validation.
An exception, interestingly enough, is that when it comes to animals, children, anybody or anything vulnerable or weak, my motivation is born of what I can only describe as a feeling of empathy so intense it borders on grief. I become consumed and overwhelmed by it.
I didn’t need to pay a professional to tell me why I am wired like this, but I did anyway. For validation, you see.
Empathy is why, after watching Food Inc., we don’t buy mass-market chicken, eggs, beef or any other livestock who has been subjected to the kinds of conditions that the folks at Tyson, et al, raise them in. I have no problem eating animals. But now that I know there’s a choice, I want them to have as close to a Little House on the Prairie existence as possible before it’s time for, you know, the dying. The images from that movie are burned into my brain, and probably burned into my husband’s brain is the memory of me, sitting on the couch, sobbing about how those poor chickens felt never going outside like chickens are supposed to. Think of how they feeeeeel. Not exactly the point of the film, I’m guessing.
Illogical hyper-empathy is also why, in the middle of a rainstorm, I will climb out of bed during the dead of night to build a cat fort out of painter’s tarp on my back deck. Because I won’t sleep if somewhere within my realm of responsibility, there are sick, scared, hungry or cold creatures. I mean, wild animals out in the wild? The horror, I know.
In light of yesterday’s post, please add to the above-listed imperfections:
does not include rats on the list of animals she is responsible for preserving
And empathy is why I turned to my Dork Lord last night and said, “We can’t buy cheap chocolate anymore.”
“Okay.”
“Like, no Hershey’s or Reese’s Pieces or anything.”
I didn’t even know. And the image of some little boy straining every muscle in his legs to lift a bag of cocoa beans so that I can give myself a headache from too many M&Ms is nauseating. I didn’t know and now I do and I’m sad. And because I don’t want that kind of suffering on my head, I’m out. I’m bound to falter (moments of weakness most likely related to late work nights and vending machines) but I will just keep trying harder so that when I close my eyes at night, I can say that I did everything I could to not hurt anyone else that day and, perhaps, save the silly bursts of panic for the neighborhood ferals.
I’m not telling you what to do, and I won’t get all cause-y about it (a stirring rendition of Language or the Kiss, anyone?) but if you’d want to know about cheap chocolate and child slavery, you can go read about it, too.
I spent the last week in Key West, keeping my fingers well pruned and off a computer keyboard. Sometimes a girl just needs to disconnect. Especially after working 65 hours the week before. That was… fun. I actually really like my job and the people I work for/with, so putting in a bunch of extra hours in the name of turning out a good product doesn’t bother me. But it turns out that physically, you can’t work 7AM to 11PM several days in a row and maintain… well, anything. A good attitude or sense of humor, a household or even appropriate caffeine to food intake ratios. I was a disaster. A twitchy-eyed, cranky disaster.
But now! Now I am well rested, appropriately caffeinated and trying to get back into the swing of things at work. Only, I’m totally distracted thinking about rats.
Oh, yes, you read that right. RATS.
This morning as I went to leave for work, I looked up from my car to see actual, gigantic, thick tailed rats walking on the window ledges of my neighbor’s house and immediately felt every hair on my body stand on end. I mean, rats. On the house. Next door. First, I freaked out and ran inside to my be-toweled husband who said he was unsurprised – the yard next door is in a state of serious neglect and the amount of rain we’d gotten over the last couple of days simply drove the vermin upwards. Totally un-comforted, I ran back outside.
“Mama!” I hollered. “C’mere, Mama!”
As Mama Cass came running, with her bow-legged little trot, from where she’d taken shelter on our back deck (I made a tent for her and the Last Wild Kitten out of a blue tarp and some patio furniture and while sure, it looks like we’ve got squatters, I just couldn’t stand the idea of them out in that rain) and I realized two things:
1) Mama is not a whole lot bigger than one of those damned rats and
2) Omg, thank the baby j that I have wild cats living in my yard
Mama Cass took after that nasty thing in a blink and, having seen Mama Cass yank a bird out of mid-air once, I was filled with every confidence that she and the LWK would soon be snacking on wild beasties. At the very least, she will keep them on their side of the fence.
Which all leads to the very important question:
Is there such a thing as anti-vermin traps or poisons that won’t hurt Mama and her kitten?
I feel like we should be pretty aggressive about keeping those horrid creatures away from our home, but I won’t do anything to compromise the health and safety of our officially unofficial pets. You know, the ones I’m considering buying a dog house for so they won’t get so wet and fine, probably even an electric blanket because cold is not an option either. SUCKER.
In a surprising bout of spontaneity, I took an unplanned, whirlwind trip to New York this weekend. Sure, now I have this nagging voice going on and on about what that does to my carbon footprint, flying across the country for like, 24 hours of capriciousness, but that’s neither here nor there. Plus, I picked up some nasty little bug so that must even things out a bit with the Universe.
Last week, E (or Ari, for you fishblog veterans) had to put her dog to sleep. She was so sad and, having just been through that surreal bit of horribleness, it ate at me that I wasn’t there to ugly cry with her. And then self medicate with Apple Jacks. Whenever I toy with the idea of finding super cheap airline deals, I’m always disappointed. But this time, I lucked out and scored some $49 tickets on an airline that wouldn’t even let me take a carry on (that woulda been another $60-$90) or choose a seat ($40, please). Like I cared. I didn’t need anything more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes. Look at me being so free-wheeling!
So off I went, and when E walked in to her apartment on Saturday and there I was just sitting lah-di-dah on her sofa, well it pains me to say I didn’t record her reaction. She stood there for the longest minute looking confused and WTF-ing. She told me later she thought she’d imagined me there. Surprise well executed. Because it was so last minute, I was also able to show up, unannounced, at a friend’s Willow-watching party and get so much hugging in, I filled the reserves.
The Dork Lord sometimes worries that I want to be back in New York. And even I, knowing better, sometimes wonder what it would be like, living among my people again, under a whole different set of circumstances. It can seem a bit rosy. There’s a lot of love there. But then I ride the subway. And I’m out. No. Thank you. It’s why I left, in part, because I found myself clenching my jaw just to keep from screaming, “Stop touching me!” every time I hit the pavement or descended into the hot, smelly subway. New York is really no place for the part-time misanthrope.
Hahahahahahah. Oh, man. That’s pretty precious, right? More on that later.
I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, stuff I can’t really talk about here because I’ve still got some sorting out to do. No, I’m not pregnant and seriously, if one more person suggests it, whether online or in person (I’ve put on some weight, yes. But it’s cheese and beer not a goddamned baby, okay?) I’m going to completely lose my composure and do something… well, very un-composed. TAKE THAT.
Because I’ve been so distracted, I’ve been a little more tweety lately, so if you want to read me wax brilliant on the company potty, toothpaste and diamonds, that’s where you can go to get your fix.
Otherwise, I’ve been spending my internet time planning home improvements I can’t afford and stalking a Kate Spade handbag, waiting for it to go on sale for many, many fewer dollars. The home improvements thing is kind of lather rinse repeat, but the bag thing is new. I’m not usually one to lust after labeled luxury goods (I happily wear Target shoes and spend more money getting them resoled than I actually spent on them in first place) but that’s how you know it’s love, right? I saw this bag and then the heavens opened and fat little angels sang me a song about how if I owned it, all my troubles would cease. And I believe them. However, having spent upwards of a thousand dollars in the last month or two on cats who do not even live with us I’m fairly certain that if I buy that bag and it’s not at a screaming deal, I’m going to have a screaming husband. Or a sulking one. You know. He’s been so patient with the cat lady thing, I can’t even tell you. Probably because I warned him that for every time he watched his recordings of the NBA finals I would rescue another kitten. And he’s WAY up on that count.
And, we’re back to the part where I realize I’m allergic to cats but it never came up because Hal (Sir Halitosis Maximus, the Grand Duke of Bad Breath) has some protein in his saliva that makes it stink like death and goat cheese and sweaty teenage boys which also counteracts the dander and blah blah, he’s essentially hypoallergenic. Midge is not. And she’s going to learn to love baths.
Today I took my lunch break at the vet’s office, this time with Mama Cass, who is going to have her baby making factory closed, posthaste. Right now, I’m waiting for Dr. Jim to call me and let me know if her blood tests come back negative for Scary Cat Diseases. He told me that he will suggest putting her down if they’re positive (Mama is feral, will never be an inside cat, and would only spread these Scary Cat Diseases around the ‘hood). I don’t know if he realized how unprepared I was to hear him say that, but I’m due for a bit of reality in Heather’s Wild Kingdom, I suppose.
Update
Mama Cass is negative for any Scary Cat Diseases, out of surgery and everything went fine. She’s spending the night at the vet so that tomorrow we can release her back into the wild.
On top of life, the last few weeks have been exceptionally stressful at work – I live by deadlines and sometimes, there are honestly just too many to manage well but I’m me, so I refuse to admit that and simply do more, longer. Until, well, until it’s as though I can smell the brain cells burning, like hair caught in the business end of a blow dryer.
I’m tired. Like, the kind of tired that they’d lock you up for back in the day, in a yellow wallpapered room and watch from a safe distance as you started to form meaningful relationships with the images you saw in it. I’m arguing with the wallpaper, people.
All I want to do is sleep but even sleep is an exercise in frustration. Night sweats. Bad dreams. I worry about the as yet unsaved kitten factor living in my yard, my own sick cat who, out of sheer stubbornness, refuses to get well, my job that I’m falling behind on and this enormous personal crisis I’m having that we can’t even go into right now. Sometimes it feels like someone is standing on my chest and I think maybe if I just go back to bed, it won’t feel as heavy. And in the midst of it, my husband, a man who doesn’t actually ever clean anything but manages to constantly place our crap into tidy, right-angled arrangements and call it cleaning, erupted in fury that I’d let the utility room get messy. I can’t even breathe and he’s mad that he can smell cat food.
I stood there, bouncing a sick kitten on my hip, suddenly thinking about tensile strength and would it actually show if I just broke inside?
He was sorry, brought home flowers. I cleaned and daydreamed about taking a nap.
Midge capital-h-hated her (even their briefest interaction was tense and awful) and though Hal largely ignored her, his inability to get over this illness (back to the vet yesterday; Dr. Jim doesn’t suspect anything sinister) had all the earmarks of stress and well, my mother-in-law met Vera on Saturday and fell, as one does, in love with the little ball of fluff.
“I can’t think of a better home,” I said to the Dork Lord, as much as to myself. “I mean, if anyone’s going to treat her like a tiny, furry person, your mom will.”
“She will treat her like a princess.”
It was true. And really the best you can hope for, your sweet little rescue going to someone who will love it to the same ridiculous degree you would yourself. Plus, we’ll still get to see her. But do you know how many times I’ve stopped myself from checking in on her in the last 20 hours? THIS MANY.
(Actual number of times I have checked in on her = THIS MANY – 2. I have been so restrained.)
At this moment, Little Gray Kitten (whom we’re tentatively calling Vera B. after her umbilical cord attachment to a certain Vera Bradley tote), is probably lying very, very still because her belly is too fat to move. This, Miss B, is what we refer to as a First World Problem. Welcome to the fray.
To those of you who made donations to help with vet costs, I cannot thank you enough. You’ve made such a nice dent in that emergency vet bill, it’s almost like it never happened. So, thank you – from the bottom of my heart and the strained circumference of Vera B’s belly.
Now that the antibiotic is working and she is eating her weight in smelly cat food every oh, six minutes, I’m working on getting her past the Terrified of Everything phase. Holy cow, she’s timid. To get her used to being handled, I wrap her in a towel and carry her around the house, doing ordinary things, having ordinary loud conversations, and all the while nuzzling her (my god, she’s soft) so she knows that members of the two-legged set are not so horrible. She’s already at the point she nuzzles me back – headbutts me, really – and purrs and cuddles and oh! did you hear that sound? RUN AND HIDE. Last night, I spent 30 minutes trying to coax her out of the interior of the office sleeper sofa. Somehow during our lessons on how to pounce things, she managed to find a wee hole that allowed her to wiggle into the frame of the couch arm. And she was not about to come out. She’d lick stinky food off my fingers and swat at me through the tear in the fabric, as though it were some terrific new game – the game that would never end – and it dawned on me that one, single, solitary pound of kitten can be a gigantic pain in the tush.
This kitten will not be the gettin’ fur on the furniture kind. She will be too busy hiding under it.
Over the weekend, our previous kitten rescue effort, the freakishly fearless Midge, discovered she had the ability to jump. Like, leap small buildings in a single bound jump. In my head, I hear an ACME cartoon boing! every time I see her launch herself on to some new lofty vertical surface. It’s pretty amusing to watch. Well, to most of us. The only one who is not amused in the least by her kangaroo rat skillz is Hal, because now he has exactly zero options about sharing his special gimpy tooth food, his well worn bed and his cool, damp sink. He’s least happy about the sink sharing and makes it no secret that he would prefer she discover someplace else to find totally irresistible.
And Midge, well, she makes it no secret that she doesn’t care what he’d prefer.
Sometimes, I look at that mug and I just want to EAT her. I’m guessing Hal feels similarly inclined.
Twenty-four hours came and went and Little Gray Kitten showed no signs of improvement. The vet at the emergency clinic said at that point, our options were in-hospital care (which I simply cannot afford) or putting the animal down. She didn’t mince words. By the time the Dork Lord got home from the office, I was in pieces. Eyes red and swollen, snot running down my upper lip, head aching. Ending a life because I don’t have enough money to save it is, undeniably, one of the cruelest realities there is. All the while, the kitten is crying for its mother and that I have failed to make it well means I have only succeeded in making its last hours lonely and frightening. The Dork Lord held me while I cried.
“What about taking him to Dr. Jim?”
There’s a reason our vet is Dallas’ favorite vet year after year. He’s wise. I mean, he offers really practical solutions to situations that other vets will only offer to solve with costly procedures. He probably fixes a lot of stuff around the house with duct tape and Legos like my dad does. If only he were available in the evenings when stupid pet emergencies tend to take place.
So, this morning, I snatched up the kitten (who has been living in my Vera Bradley tote and fuh-reaks out if you offer to swap it out for a bed of towels and blankets) and headed to Dr. Jim. He did not see our options as so limited. He gave Little Gray Kitten a cortisone shot and and sent me away with the following shopping list:
A steam humidifier
Vicks Vaporizer liquid
Little Noses decongestant
The smelliest, nastiest cheapest kitten food out there. Something fishy.
My homework, he said, was to get Little Gray Kitten to eat. On her own (this syringe business was not working). Problem was, he said, if she can’t smell it, she can’t eat it. Wait, did you catch that? Despite everyone at the EAC calling Little Gray Kitten “he,” she’s most definitely a she.
“We don’t charge much for the visit,” Dr. Jim said. “But that sex change operation’s gonna cost you.”
And right now she is living in our bathroom, with two humidifiers and the world’s nastiest smelling seafood kitten chow, which she has, most miraculously, begun to eat all by herself.
As for me, once it’s quitting time, I’m taking a long, long nap. Maybe into next week. I have one hell of an empathy hangover.
Oh, Universe. This is not what I had in mind by “cuddling them off to the vet.”
Last night, I reached into the flower bed and pulled out the little gray kitten, who was too weak to put up much of a fight. Then I swabbed the infection out of his eyes, gently washed the crust off his nose and while his mama sat at my feet questioning my authority, bottle fed him some kitten formula. When I put him down next to her on the lawn a few minutes later, he took two steps and gave up. And that’s when we went to the vet because I couldn’t stand the idea of that tiny thing dying out there in the heat.
My husband would tell me that if he did, that’s how natural selection works. Well, not in my damn bushes, it doesn’t. This is why the Visa card was invented, I suspect, to interfere with Mother Nature when she’s PMSing.
Unlike Midge, this little one is terrified of me. Which, naturally, makes syringe-feeding difficult. Part of me is so heartbroken to hear him cry for his mama, but what can I do? I can’t give him antibiotics twice a day if I give him back to her. I can’t even be sure the antibiotics are going to work. The vet at the emergency animal clinic said we’ll know by tonight if he’s going to make it.
Last night, I slept on the floor of the office where he is quarantined, afraid that something might happen. This morning, though, he appears to have more energy and I’m packing up my laptop to go work from home so the ritual force feedings can begin in earnest.
Once he’s well, he’s going to need a home. I would sincerely appreciate any leads on a good, stable kitten home.
About two weeks ago now, I wondered aloud as to why we hadn’t seen Cass in a while (Midge’s Feral Mama —> Mama Cat —> Mama Cass —> Cass) and grumbled over how dedicated she’d been to thwarting my plan to get her baby makin’ parts shut down. I saw her that very afternoon, though, and realized why we had not seen her. Because she was off having babies.
The cutest damn babies there ever were (next to Midge herself, naturally, and Hal, though I never knew him as a wee one), I think, now live in the bushes outside of our kitchen window. Two of them – one gray and one torty, just like Midge. We were in the middle of Hal’s illness (which after vet visit number four seems to be healing, finally) and so I was already feeling like a horrible failure in the Keeping Kitties Happy and Healthy Department when I realized I’d totally tanked in my resolve to keep Mama Cass un-knocked up. It broke my heart. But it also made me more determined than ever.
Every night and every morning since, I have sat out there by those bushes, being eaten alive by biting insects, patiently talking to Mama Cass while I plied her with food and cool water and cooing songs about fuzzy kittens and life-saving veterinary care.
Three nights ago, she rewarded me by laying down within arms reach and calling her kittens out from hiding. My heart might actually have stopped beating for a moment while out they crept and zoom! right back into the bushes. Ma, there’s a lady out there! But Ma was having none of it and issued a direct order to get on with the suckling while the suckling was good. And so they suckled while I watched and heaved heavy sighs.
Last night, I petted Mama Cass. I mean, really petted. For weeks now, I’ve been sneaking in a touch or two. A tap on the nose, a brush of her side as she scooted by. But last night, I got her good. Against her better judgment, at first, but what could she do with such tempting vittles placed strategically at my side? She ate and I petted.
And then this morning, I petted again – only this time, even after the food had been gobbled up. I scratched her arched back and she shocked us both by purring and tilting up her chin for a rub. And she called her babies, who pranced around in me in wide circle, chasing Mama’s tail and tackling leaves.
I’m going to hold one of those babies soon. And they are going to love it. Once they’re weaned, I am going to cuddle them all off to the vet and find them happy homes like the one Midge has where her humans only freak out a little bit when shower curtains are climbed and eyeglasses are chewed.
And screw the humane cat trap thing. By the time we’re done with this, Mama Cass is going to let me pick her up. Because I’ve decided that is how it’s going to be. And I will sit outside every morning and every night and get West Nile Virus if I have to because if you think a feral cat is stubborn, you should meet her resident cat lady.
Five months ago, our apartment was burglarized while we were attending a funeral. Rough estimates of the loss came in at just over seven thousand dollars.
Yesterday at 4:20PM, ADT calls to say that the alarm had been triggered at our house. A fault has been detected in Zone 5 (utility room door) and they are aware that the pass code has been entered.
“That’s impossible,” I say, feeling my stomach drop. “My husband and I are the only ones with codes and we’re both at work.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m absolutely sure.”
“It says it was entered by remote.”
My remote, I know, is tucked in my handbag. My husband sometimes leaves his on the counter.
“God.”
“Would you like me to call the police?”
“Yes, please. Please call the police.”
By now, I’m scrambling. Closing documents, exiting programs. It all takes so long, I grab my bag and head for the door.
“My house is being broken into,” I tell a coworker without stopping.
I’m moving quickly down the hall of the office. Soon I’m jogging. And then running. I pass through the lobby in a full sprint. People are staring. I don’t care. I’m sprinting down the street. It’s four blocks to the lot where my car is parked. Waiting for the pedestrian signal is nauseating. The phone rings the moment I’m in the car.
“ADT says the police won’t come because we aren’t registered with the City of Dallas.”
“But we are. I filled out the paperwork. I paid. Remember? That guy Dave said he’d file it.”
“He didn’t do it.”
The traffic leaving downtown is bumper to bumper. My head is throbbing. My chest is tight.
“It will be too late,” I say, and it’s easy to hear how close I am to tears.
“I’ll call the police myself,” he says. But in the end, they won’t come. We’re not on the premises.
My phone stops recognizing its SIM card and I’m left, in quiet, inching through traffic, imagining what they’ve taken this time. Have the animals been smart enough to stay inside? God, please let them stay inside. Are the laptops hidden? Sometimes we forget. I’m mentally bargaining with the burglars to leave the bedding this time.
I’m screaming inside my head by the time I make the final turn into our neighborhood. I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have everything taken. I know. And I can’t go through it again. I think briefly about where we will stay. I already know I can’t live in a house that’s been ransacked and feel safe. Or even sleep.
I park the car and race up the steps. My husand stands in the middle of the room, unbuttoning his collar, hissing into his speaker phone. He is enraged.
There’s no break in. The alarm never sounded. Whoever installed our alarm assigned the same identification code to another home. I stand there in the 90-degree heat of the living room and wait for my heart to stop racing. I try to reclaim those last thirty minutes, undo the panic, bring it back to “everything is fine” but it just makes me more fidgety and angry.
“I’m going to go buy some more fans,” I say, and then leave, knowing that whatever fury is boiling in me will be translated verbatim to ADT by my husband who is simply better at being furious. I would just cry.
And contrary to my normally frugal nature, I don’t care if it costs every penny I (and my future children) will ever make to get it working again, because that is how much I would pay for it not to be 85 degrees in my house at 11:00 at night.
We learned fairly quickly that I would have made a very cranky pioneer.
Yesterday was my 33rd birthday and although it started out rather tenuously (oh, hi cat barf), it picked up some steam with cards and lunch with a friend and dinner with my husband and video birthday greetings from the cutest sibling spawn there ever was.
Happy Birthday from Penny, age 1 year, 9 months
Happy Birthday from Owen, age 2 years, 9 months
And since my birthday was marked erroneously on the office calendar, we’re celebrating today, too. A birthday extension! Which, aside from increased cake consumption and revelry, might give my own parents some extra time to, you know, actually acknowledge it. Here’s to Thirty-three! The year of managed expectations!
Saturday night, everything was as it usually is. The in-laws took us to dinner and then we sat around the living room chatting and listening to the beasts wear a path up and down the hall. Kathumpthumpthump Hal chases Midge. Kathumpthumpthump Midge chases Hal. Any quiet in between meant someone was getting pinned and given the what for. The evening ended with Hal asleep in my lap, purring and drooling.
Sunday, though, everything was just plain wrong. I wiggled my way under the bed to where Hal was hiding, wondering, why was he acting so strangely, hunched over like that? It was because he was trying so hard to breathe. I listened to the rasping sound of his painfully deliberate breathing and burst into tears. Fifteen minutes later, we were at the Emergency Animal Clinic. I handed the Boy my purse and climbed out of the car.
“Oh, no.”
I looked over from the cat carrier to the Boy who was standing on the hot concrete holding my now shattered iPhone.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“It really doesn’t matter.”
It really didn’t. I just couldn’t care about it.
The woman at the front desk whisked Hal away the moment we stepped inside. Respiratory distress. When the vet appeared briefly to talk to us some time later, he suggested that Midge could have brought the illness into the house. I clarified that she’d been with us more than six weeks, that neither cat had been outdoors and that both cats have been given clean bills of health regarding the scary cat-to-cat diseases (no FIV, no FeLV). He shrugged, unconcerned, gave us antibiotics and sent us on our way.
I left poorer and totally unsatisfied.
I spent most of the afternoon napping under bed, next to Hal who dozed on the heating pad I’d dragged there for him. His ears burned from fever and his breath was ragged, but he purred loudly as I rubbed his head. Which, naturally, made me feel worse. I kind of wished he’d have blown snot on me and told me what a horrible cat mother I was. By Monday morning, he was up and about acting as though nothing had happened, but I’m not buying it. Both cats are headed back to the vet for a full work up and I’m not leaving with any stupid shrug as the answer to why my cat couldn’t breathe. Ugh.
