Deja Vu

We had to take Eli to the vet today. He was long overdue his rabies shot.

Normally, this is far more traumatic for him than me, but today, not so.

I was feeling a little PTSDie over the death of Lily, just a few days ago, right at this vet's office.

I've already sniffed over the loss of my petting buddy in the mornings, an empty basket where she slept and the biggest of all, being able to put the water bowl in the floor instead of the bathtub.

You see, Lily, being a Maine Coon, liked water. And sometimes, when she was drinking, she'd get a little carried away. She'd start off by scooping up water and drinking out of her paw, but then she'd splash a little and that would turn into a frenzied splashing session.

Whoever heard her would fly into the bathroom and yell, "Lily!" She'd stand there, water dripping off her ears, nose, whiskers, chest, legs and feet, and give you that death stare that said, "WHAT?" And of course, the floor was a lake.

So, we kept the water bowl in the tub, so when the mood struck her, she could go at it.

Eli hates the vet, but doesn't pitch a fit. He is silent, but uses all twenty pounds to fight against whatever is happening, as he is trying to get back in his carrier.

Twenty pounds doesn't sound like much. But you try keeping that pure muscle and determination on a slick table. Whew!

Of course, today, we brought back a strong, healthy, young cat who is in his last  year of growth.

The other day we brought home an empty carrier and a burial box with Lily's remains.

Thankfully, not every day is sad. Today was a good day, for which I am grateful. 

Aren't you?

Busy, Busy

Besides taking two of the cats to the vet today, I have been reading the manuscript copy in book form (on the computer) to make sure it's okay.

It's not okay.

There were a few mistakes a friend caught, at the last minute.

I realized, in looking at the name of chapters, I had goofed, and spent last night working (already in bed) as to how I was going to fix it without a huge do over.

I figured it out.

But my brain is tired.

My body is tired.

I think I'll go to bed early. (If I go to bed much earlier than usual, I might as well not get up.)

I still ain't called my mother today, so I better do that first.

Later, gater.

Quirky

If you want to know the meaning of the word quirky, watch a cat.

We have four, as you know. They are each very different from one another, but each very, very strange.

Lilly, our elder, is almost fourteen and has some chronic health issues. We call her "Darth Vadar" because of the way she sounds. She does some typical Maine Coon things, like scooping up food and water into her paw and using it like a spoon. She also gets carried away sometimes and begins splashing in the water until the floor and her face and chest are drenched.

She also loves potatoes to the point if I am serving mashed potatoes or potato salad in particular, she will circle the table, bellowing at the top of her considerable lungs until she is fed.

Maine Coons are also famous for their chirps and trills instead of meows, and we also call her a Wookie because of the sounds she makes.

And she snores like a bumble bee buzzes.

Next is Frost. Frost is exactly twice the weight he should be. When we rescued him from the shelter he was svelte. He'd also not been fed enough for a while, so when we brought him home he clearly had an eating disorder (I ain't kidding). He would be in a deep sleep, suddenly jump up and run to his food dish in a panic, just to make sure there was food available.  And he took advantage of it, so like he's a pig like cat. The vet says she has one of those, too, and there isn't much you can do when you have multiple cats - especially if  you still have growing cats, as we do.

Frost also worships Husband. If Husband goes out the door at night (when he walked Molly before bedtime), Frost would hop up on the sewing machine, part the blinds with his paw, and cry pitifully until Husband came back in. He follows him around a lot, interested in anything Husband might be doing.

He likes to play "slaps" with Daughter - he lies on his side, she puts her hand out, and tries to withdraw it before he can slap at it with his paws. If they play too long he wins regardless because he bites her.

He nurses and kneads fuzzy blankets, but is embarassed if he gets caught.

At the vet, he is a holy terror. They tell me when Frost has a vet appointment, the office goes on "high alert". He growls, he spits, he backs up, he threatens, he bites, he fights. When he had a kidney infection they wanted a urine sample. So they put him in the kennel for the day. They were about to close, so they called and said he refused to urinate, we might as well come get him.

When we arrived, the vet tech got him out of the kennel to put him back in his carrier, and he promptly peed all over her. Let's just say there ain't no love lost between the staff and our cat.

Then we have Mimi. Or rather, Daughter has Mimi. She is a torti colored mix, the kind of cat who looks long haired but doesn't have tangles and such. She is dumb as a box of rocks.

She is also clumsy, which doesn't become a cat - but she starts to jump up on stuff and misses, she lies on the edge of the bed, rolling around and thump, there she goes off into the floor. She  never learns. She has a high pitched squeak that turns into a croak every fall when her allergies act up.

She's also very skittish. At the least little noise or movement, she jumps a mile.

Lastly, is my boy, Eli. When we brought Eli home he was a two month old, two pound kitten. The first night he crawled into bed with me, snuggled up against my neck and went to sleep. He still does that, four years later, except the only thing that fits up against my neck is his head. He wakes me up purring sometimes. I will wake up on my side, and he'll be lying the whole length of my torso, and then some. I don't know how long he is because he's afraid of the tape measure (go figure). But he is weighing in at almost twenty pounds, and still growing for a  year or so. Lord, help us.

He is the alpha cat (and has been since he walked in). At two pounds, he sauntered up to the food dish, made a teeny tiny noise, and the adult cats ran away. I kid  you not.

He still has a teeny tiny voice, which is comical, but the other cats don't see anything funny about it. They growl, hiss and run when he "talks" to them. It sounds sweet, but apparently is anything but.

I call him my "white shadow" because he thinks he has to be wherever I am. He's even gotten in the shower with me a few times. He sits toward the back of the tub and blinks while he gets misted.

 He comes when I whistle, he loves to play catch and chase. Maybe he thinks he's a small dog.

So, there you have it. This is the circus we live in.

Pray for us.

The Day After

I figured I better blog tonight so no one would think I'd gone berserk and eaten my young.

Nope.

The salt truck and scraper came and Husband ran out to town like a scalded dog. That was a good thing because we were needing groceries. Husband usually grocery shops on Wednesday, so we were two days behind.

Unfortunately, everyone else was two days behind right along beside him. Plus some foul odor and loud noise was attacking the grocery store. Husband said two ladies walked by with their mouths covered with cloth. He just walked out and left the buggy.

Then he went to Wal-mart.

Husband found out there are far worse things than wives who write strange blogs.

Since Husband had such a lovely time, Daughter and I finally took the cats to the vet. I only got one teeny tiny scratch from Lilly after we cornered her attempting to put her in the carrier.

We got back home with nary another scratch. There was still some slush on the bad shady part of the road, and it will refreeze tonight, but thaw again tomorrow.

I hear it's going to snow next week.

I reckon I'm ready as I'll ever be.

Now that I got out, I remembered it ain't all it's cracked up to be.

There is no place like home, Auntie Em.

Closed for Repairs

I probably should have put a sign up on this blog, similar to that...

The blog ain't broke, but everything else in my life seems to be.

Daughter has not been well for a few months, and instead of getting better when we go to the doctor, she's gotten worse. My skinny child has lost eleven pounds.

To those who know her, I heard you gasp.

Monday evening she said, "Mama, I can't take this anymore. Something has to be done. I am calling the doctor."

So Monday night we saw another doctor, who believes Daughter has an ulcer. The doctor put Daughter on a super-dooper medication and she is finally able to eat without excruciating pain. The doctor also recommended a few other things, including a G.I. Specialist. We are awaiting an appointment.

Tuesday it was my turn to go to the urologist because of recurring infections and possibly (ha) passing kidney stones. I am now awaiting a call for a C. T. scan. I was placed on medication. One of the medications cost $139.88 (my part).

I need a minute.

Today, it was Mother's turn. Husband and I (he wouldn't go alone with her, read previous blog), took her to an orthopedic doctor because she can't raise her arm, or move it to the side anymore. Her news was her shoulder is not repairable, but the doctor wants her to go to physical therapy to strengthen other muscles to compensate for what she has lost. We are now awaiting a call from the physical therapist to set up appointments.

I guess you could say we are ladies in waiting.

Tomorrow, I get a massage. YAY!

But then, I have to take two of the whites to the vet. Eli needs (okay, no he doesn't, but I won't argue with the law in this blog) a rabies shot, and both he and Lilly need some mats removed.

If I live through putting Lilly in a carrier, Friday we are seeing a comedy at the local theatre. It is a play put on by locals. We are going as part of our celebration of our wedding anniversary.

Lord knows I could use a few laughs.

Anyway, pardon my absence this week, but you see how it goes.

If it ain't one doctor, it's been two.

Armageddon! Or: Taking Two Cats to the Vet

When you have Maine Coon cats one thing is bound to occur: matting. (notice the two t's, please)

Eli doesn't tolerate combing very well, and Lilly will let you, just not under her where her belly is. This is the first year Eli has had a full winter coat, so this is the second time in less than two months that I've had to have some mats shaved from his underside.

Lilly was given a crew cut several months ago, so she just now has had a few mats that needed shaving.

The adventure of putting her into a carrier is best left untold.

Eli goes willingly, every time. He even lays around in our carrier sometimes when he is ambushing another cat or hiding from Daughter.

But the carrying on in the car on the way to the vets is earsplitting! And you should hear the cats, too!  HA!

And it is creepy to see cats pant. Only dogs should pant. They look wild. Ears laid back, teeth bared...skeery.

Eli weighs seventeen pounds now, and Lilly is a solid eleven. Toting them in and out ain't no easy chore, either.

Signing in and waiting is interesting.

One lady brought in a very reluctant dog. The woman opened the door and stood there, holding a leash with something obviously on the other end, but I thought the dog was never gonna make it. When she did finally scurry in, what we saw a  was a very fat Pug who looked like it was going to burst into tears. Her curly tail was tucked between her legs.She hid under the bench at the door, then hurried to get to the next bench so she could hide under it and sit behind her owner's legs. Occasionally, she would peek out, look exceedingly worried and hide again.

Her name was (get ready) Sassy.

Then a woman came out of one of the examining rooms, crying. I mean really crying, funeral home crying. And she had no pet in her arms. But they sat down to wait....

I said a prayer for her.

They took Lilly back, trimmed her and brought her to us. I went back with Eli. He's my baby,you know, and he does better.

It's true. He stares at me when they are buzzing him. If he loses sight of me, he struggles.

The vet tech said she'd seen cats be so afraid they were running laps around the room, trying to find a way out. And these cats were on the ceiling. And I quote: "I don't know  how they can climb straight up a wall, but they do it."

When I came back out an older gentleman was there with a young, boisterous setter of some sort who was barking loudly every fifteen seconds.

Each time old Sassy cringed and trembled.

We paid, we left, we got home.

Until next time.

Fat Cat In Da House

Four years ago, when we rescued Frost from the shelter, he was a svelte two year old. He weighed in at eleven pounds.

This is a young Frost break dancing on the kitchen floor. Go, boy, go!




He could jump way up to catch things, he was very active and affectionate.

But he had this little problem that we  noticed right away. He was anxious about his food dish. He could actually be in a deep sleep, wake up as if panicked and run to his food dish to check the food supply there.

We knew the family that took him to the shelter had to give him up because they had both lost their jobs and couldn't afford him anymore. It was obvious he'd been loved and taken care of, but I began to wonder if they'd held on to him a little too long, and he'd not be given enough to eat for a while.

Food is always available because we are a four cat family (Shut up.). I've discussed it with the vet, and she says having a growing kitten, an elderly cat, and a nibbler, there is really no way to monitor Frost's eating. She says one of her cats is a fatty too.

Well, Frost is now a FAT six year old. He weighs sixteen pounds! Our Maine Coon, at present, is much taller, longer, bigger boned, and heavier furred still growing at fifteen pounds.

This is Frost today, trying to break dance, but choosing a much softer surface and never really getting off the ground.


So you can figure where the fat is.

I'm embarrassed when I take Frost to the vet. He has kidney problems, and now he is on a special food, but it isn't helping him slim down. And when they tried to do a CT scan of his kidneys, they couldn't see them for all the fat!!

I may have been a therapist in my former life. And I may have helped people with eating disorders.

But a fat cat?

Not a clue.

It Only Takes One (or Two)

I'm talking about fleas.

My cats and dog have never had fleas. Molly is eight years old, so that tells you how nice it has been. We have always used the stuff between her shoulder blades that you apply once a month, and we've never had a problem.

We never treated the cats, because they don't go outside, and we figured if Molly, who is the only pet who goes outdoors, was treated, we were safe.

And that was the case, until a few months ago, when Molly had a vet visit.

She'd been home a few hours, when Daughter noticed a 'bug' crawling on Molly's face. It was a flea! Apparently she'd picked it up at the vets.

Not that I'm blaming the vets, they can't control what animals have on 'em when they are in the waiting room. I wish they had a flea alert alarm that would go off, but  no.

Anyway, we got the flea off and killed that little sucker, (pun intended) and looked Molly over pretty good and found two more, killed them, and thought that was that.

And it seemed so....until the cats started scratching. Eli was impossible to find anything on him, as he has three layers of fur. Lily looked clean. Mimi is a tortie, so who could see a flea? And Frost, well, he growled and bit, but we held him down. And found fleas galore.

I won't repeat the word I said, but it was reminiscent of my grandmother's choice of words when she was extremely frustrated. See previous blog.

It has entailed an exhausting adventure of taking four (count 'em, four) cats to the vet to have a bath, because the stuff we used from Lowe's worked not at all. But it had to be washed off them completely in order for the stuff that does work to be put on them. Three of the four cats had to be sedated to be bathed. So we had three drunk cats and one somewhat paranoid cat for several  hours.

They sure did sleep well that night, though.

We don't have fleas here anymore. The vet has a lot more money than he had last week.

We are broke, the cats are serene, and the vet is rich.

And all it took was one flea - or two.

It's Been Monday All Day

First of all, we had to have the White Boys (Frost and Eli) at the vet between 8:00 and 8:30 this morning. Frost growled, snarled, hissed and bit at us while we shoved his fat butt into the carrier.

Which broke.

Husband had to get wire to wire the door shut, and I had to huff and puff and work on the little thingies that turned just so in order for the top not to separate from the bottom, hurting my back and shoulder in the process, because I am a WIMP.

Of course, Husband was late getting them there, but they were sympathetic, having dealt with us before. And Frost continued to act like a beast and got his rear end sedated. HA!

We went walking when Husband got back, and despite the pleasant surroundings, it was more of a chore than pleasure, because of the pain I was in.

My batteries died in my camera, just when I had a great picture to take.

We  had to move a piece of furniture back against the wall. The reason it was out from the wall is too complicated to go into here, let's just say: cat.

Husband banged his head on the window seal, and thinking he'd die any minute, took it out on Daughter who had been muttering unpleasant things under her breath.

Daughter had to have two new tires on her car because one kept going low, and they were too slick anyway. Guess how much that cost?

My prescription refill had expired, and I'm not supposed to go without this medicine, so there was the rigamarole of calling the doctor's office, who doesn't believe in people answering the  phone. Oh, no. It's a complicated mess of pushing number after number and then getting a voice mail.

My nail polish chipped.

I can't seem to do anything with my hair, either.

Then Daughter casually mentioned over dinner that last night "my computer was making funny noises."

A moment of silence here, please.

This is the computer that has all work stored in it, the one I write my books on, my poetry, my short stories, my every precious thought. Okay, maybe it ain't all that precious, but still.

So I hobble out to the studio and there's a  nice blue screen telling me that a fatal error occurred causing 02394-1938457324zxx n0998.  Followed by physical memory being dumped. Physical memory now dumped.

WHAT????

I dialed the computer place, whimpering. They said (get ready) to bring it in.

Husband just left, hard drive in the seat. He'll bring back the White Boys who will be ticked off for the rest of the afternoon.

Join the club, boys, join the club.