Medicating Cats

I didn't write this, but anyone who has ever owned a cat will recognize its veracity. Mr. Husband has taken on the lion's share (or, perhaps, the house-cat's share) of the work, since I am always at the office. Merle is getting no pills, however; just nasty-tasting liquids - you can tell by the spitting - and injections.

Can't go out tonight, gotta go home and shoot up the cat.

City Girl

My father died two years ago today. He grew up on a dairy farm - a dairy farm that had antique cars as well as cows, and two mightily challenged alcoholic parents; it is a miracle he made it out of his life alive, as a friend of mine opined. He did, though I think now that he fought for his sanity every step of the way.

I, on the other hand, am a city girl and observed livestock with a mixture of fear and wonder when we drove through rural areas on our way somewhere. My sister and I always pointed out herds of cows or sheep to each other. But even though I loved reading James Herriot, I never actually saw many animals up close, except at the zoo. When I moved to the Midwest, I had no idea what I was getting into, as evidenced by my very first morning there.

I'd been accepted into a new program at a major university, and went to visit the department before accepting their offer. The closest big city was Chicago. I arrived there at some ungodly hour - 5 am, as I remember - and boarded another plane. This one had propellers. The air-traffic control tower, by necessity the tallest building around, was two stories high. I had never seen any place so flat. It was what I imagined the floor of the ocean looked like.

I was met by a shuttlebus driven (I later learned) by a rotating collection of retired athletic department employees from the University. Most of them had grown up there, went to school there, raised their families there, and retired there. It was a kind of legacy which I could not even imagine, and which I vaguely envied. After I collected my luggage (one of three bags on the conveyor belt) I went outside. I was the only passenger.

You have to understand that I was tired, and I was nervous, and I wasn't thinking about what I was saying, when we passed a dairy farm on the outskirts of the airport. "Look!" I exclaimed. "Cows!" The driver looked at me for several seconds, his American Gothic face blank in the early morning light. Then he looked back at the road. "You're gonna get over that real quick," he said.

I was mortified, of course, and pretended to sleep the rest of the way. I never really did get over it, though. I still exclaimed over the animals I saw. I just did it in my head.

Pet And Purr

Merle came home today. His kidney values are still high with ick like potassium and phosphorus, and that damage is done. However, he is much better than he was last week, and we have him on a new diet that should help, and tomorrow we begin giving him subcutaneous fluids. (The vet did it today while Mr. Husband watched, and he will show me.) In a couple of weeks we'll return to the animal hospital and to get him tested and see how he's doing; we may be able to go to more infrequent treatments.

The best news is that he seems as happy to see us as we are to see him. I took a nap when I got home today, and he was so close to me that he was almost underneath me. He wants to cuddle and be petted and purr and rub up against us and purr some more. And sleep sitting bolt upright on Mr. Husband's lap. And eat.

(The vet gave Mr. Husband two kinds of food to try to see what Merle preferred, which I thought was hilarious. The only thing he DOESN'T eat, as far as I can tell, is carrots, and I bet if they were cooked he'd like them too.)

The sobering part is that this is the beginning of the end of his life. Of course, when I was first diagnosed with cancer, that was the beginning of the end of my life, and it was almost 20 years ago. In the end, it is just seeing the world from a different vantage point. (Okay, that's kind of a big "just". But you know what I mean.)

Take Thou The Catbird Seat

AMAZING MERLE
(to the tune of Amazing Grace)

Amazing Merle
How strange the cat
Who licks the shower dry
He once was thin, but now is fat
From eating all the time.

‘Twas Merle
That woke me in the night
By jumping on my face
He plays inside a paper bag
Though lacking feline grace.

Oh Merle
Be thou our guiding cat
Take thou the catbird seat
To rub against our smelly shoes
And nibble on our feet.

Merle is in the animal hospital with kidney failure.

Sunday he was his normal crazy feline self - sleeping sitting up ramrod-straight on Mr. Husband's lap, hiding his face from the light, attacking recently-worn shoes with mad lust. He didn't eat much on Monday and vomited repeatedly; we thought he had a hairball. He was listless yesterday, though he drank some water, and today Mr. Husband took him to the vet.

They are keeping him there until at least tomorrow, but it is possible that with subcutaneous water injections he may have a couple more years. 614 and her husband did that, and made it sound pretty easy. We'll know in a day or two.

It all happened so fast and so suddenly. I would happily put up with the way he determinedly spreads his bulk across the bed, forcing us to the edges, if he could stick around a little longer.

Clearly Deluded Humans

"Goats do not push well. If you push them to get them out of your way,

they will lean into the push. It you want them to move, pull them."

This may be the longest this blog has gone without a post, which makes me sad. I keep reminding myself that this upheaval is a temporary situation. Of course, temporary means "lasting for a limited time" (according to Merriam-Webster) which has a lot of room for interpretation. We have rolled with the punches, though, and worked through confusion and frustration; we have been able to keep our perspective.

Only in this last week I have seen the first signs of real wear, especially in myself and in Troi. So it is a good thing that our new space is almost finished, that the carpet did, in the end, arrive on schedule, and that the furniture should be here next week. Then we can concentrate on doing our jobs. And it is also a good thing that the other departments that need help are (albeit slowly) getting it, because I feel like a membership - accounting - computer systems - construction - flying purple people-eater.

So for the moment, I'm just putting my head down and charging forward. I am capable of putting on a burst of speed and stubbornness. If I could choose my own mascot, it would be a goat - I love that they are finicky but can basically eat anything if they have to. They also have a "intensely inquisitive and intelligent nature" which appeals to me. Somehow nature turned against the goat at some point, though, because "they explore anything new... primarily with their prehensile upper lip and tongue." Which means, basically, that if they get inquisitive about cyanide, it's all over.

When my sister Froggie was in high school, she and I spent some time alone together in New Hampshire. We were thrilled that the state fair fell during that time and we went to go see the kids (human variety) show their goats. Goats are apparently categorized as pack animals, so the little course that each goat had to follow included donning panniers, which they tolerated fairly well, and being led around a ring. There were various obstacles that goat and child had to negotiate along the way - a fence, some tires, rocks, etc.

Only the goats were too smart. They could see perfectly well that they didn't have to go over the pile of rocks; they could see the path around it. In fact, they seemed a little perplexed by the actions of their humans. "Really, trust me," you could almost hear them saying, "I don't know why you can't see the path, but I can get you there without going through that water and getting your hooves wet. Honest." Most times, the goat would give in (with a sigh) and play along with the clearly deluded human. Occasionally, one of the children, frustrated and foiled by their animal, would simply pick it up by ears and tail and carry it over the water. I imagine they lost points for that.

(As a side note, this was the same summer that the Boy Scouts of America decided it would be fine for them to bar gay men from being BSA leaders and gay boys from being scouts. At the fair, there was a huge hand-lettered sign reading "LEMONADE! 25 CENTS BOY SCOUTS FRESH SQUEEZED!". No irony intended, I'm sure.)

And Now Here's Something We Hope You'll Really Like

These immortal words were originated by Rocky J. Squirrel, one of the stars of The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.

Because I love Alberto Reguera's work. We have one of his pieces, pink and red on blue and (my favorite part) a splotch of yellow near the lower left-hand corner, which transforms the whole piece. It was a wedding present from me to Mr. Husband and every time I look at it, even though it is beautiful, I regret that I didn't throw caution to the wind and buy the bright yellow one that he loved even more. (I can't find a photo of it on line, so you'll have to take my word for it.) I was new to abstract art and didn't yet understand how to look for the effect of it.

And as long as I'm making a wish list, I would also love to have this one...

Prophylactic Amputation*

I returned to work today, or rather, hobbled to work - I broke or sprained my rightmost baby toe a week and a half ago while I was packing, and it is still painful.

It isn't as bad as it could be, though. I had decided, right after this injury happened, that gangrene was setting in. Because I've had some minor numbness in my right hand and foot (maybe from the radiation, maybe?) I was sure I was the second Thomas Covenant. I tortured myself with questions. How would I know if my foot was still there? How would I avoid hurting it more badly if I could not feel it? Would the disease spread? Should I have a prophylactic amputation?

I was verging on hysteria when I went to the bathroom in our hotel room last weekend, took off my shoes and socks, and discovered a hugely swollen and bruised toe. Which was an enormous relief. Because at this point, if a malady can be diagnosed and treated, or even if I know that it will heal, I am grateful.

*beware: icky pictures below the fold

Perchance To Dream

To sleep, of course, has to come first. Two nights ago I woke up in a panic - I was sure that we were doing everything wrong, that my judgment was terrible, that I wasn't keeping up with the accounting correctly, and that the entire program was going to crash and burn in front of my eyes. Mr. Husband talked me down, but I was edgy all day.

Last night I decided I was over it and that I don't need pharmaceuticals anyway because I am INVINCIBLE. That worked until about 3 am. I slept in a little this morning after I tricked myself into believing that I had to go to work. It's amazing the way having to get up helps me sleep!

When I was a little girl I performed, from time to time, in local theater productions. We'd often rehearse until it was later than I otherwise got home from school, and by the time everything else was done I went to bed quite late. My mother would say to me, "this is going to be a short night for you, so sleep concentratedly." She was joking, but I still say that to myself when I am facing a short night.

I am on vacation now, and I am doing my best to let go of my stranglehold on my job, but that isn't easy for me. I speak to my office daily, and while I recognize that this renews my anxiety, I think I would be even more tense if I was totally out of the loop. In addition, I have been battling my puritanical distaste for soporifics to no avail. Tonight I will take a pill, rather than waiting to see if I can outwit the sneaky terrors in my mind.

Tomorrow we start for home, and I am hoping that I will see everything with new and patient eyes when we get there. And I have missed the cat of little brain!

Here Comes The Rain Again

My maternal grandparents are Dutch, which is, perhaps, why I find rain so familiar and peaceful. I'm not talking about all rain, of course. But there is a kind of rain that happens in winter - cold rain, miserable to walk in, deeply dampening - which makes the world inside sweet and cozy. That's the kind of rain I mean. One travel guide says about Amsterdam "rain is likely all year round". It's melancholy but a bit delicious.

The song of the same name was recorded by the Eurythmics in 1984, when I was just about to finish high school. My friends and I were very romantic about the ending of this period of our lives. I do not mean this to belittle my experience then, but it was as if I had to invent the drama that I was sure was out there. I turned out to be right, but I didn't yet understand the actuality of being undone by basic and inescapable events. I made things more complicated because I thought it would be more interesting. Today, I no longer feel that simple is a insult.

I have been watching the rain since early afternoon. The bay is almost invisible and the sky is a darkening flat grey. I am staying inside with Mr. Husband and my mother and we might play some Scrabble if I can convince them to. This is all I need - a warm home, some good people to love and be loved by, work in which I believe. A cat would be a bonus, but we have one at home.

Oh, and chocolate, of course.