And that's when he told me the cat was paralyzed.

In the middle of moving day.  I was at the new house, already unpacking.  David was back at the old house to help lead the movers in a second rendition of Should it stay or should it go.

"Hello?"

"...Hi..."

He had a tone.  "What's wrong?!?"

"Well, Minuit seems to be..."

"What?  Seems to be what?"

"Well, I think that she somehow injured herself.  She's, uh, moving a little odd."

"Like how odd?  How injured?"

"Like she is having trouble moving her back end.  I think I need to take her to the vet."

"What are you NOT telling me? How much trouble is she having?!?"

"..."

"David..."

"She's kind of... dragging her back end..."

"VET!  Take her to the vet!!"

Of course this would happen on moving day.  Of course this would happen to Minuit.  This is the absolute best time for this.

Later...

"The vet's not sure.  Could be a blood clot or it could be a slipped or pinched disc.  Nothing's broken, nothing showed up on the x-rays - except for a slightly enlarged heart."  (Minuit is the fattest of our cats.)

"So what are we doing?"

"We're going to wait and see.  They said to keep her contained in a small space and see how it goes.  We've got an appointment for tomorrow."

So we spend the rest of the night - in between toing and froing from the old house (we don't technically close the deal on the old house for a few days)  - checking in on Minuit, now sequestered on the floor of the 1/2 bath in the old house.  She's not eating food.  She's not drinking.  Every time the humans share a glance, we have that resigned, lost another cat, look.

Next day, Rissa and I have her in with the vet.  We're prepped emotionally.  David's already said his goodbyes.  The odds of us being able to give full time care to a paralyzed cat are slim to none.  I work, David works, Rissa's in school.  There is no way that a cat in a rolly-wheel device is going to be able to navigate a litter box.

The vet checks her out.  "She's looking better than she did yesterday."

I think: Really?!?  This is better?!?  Paralyzed from the waist down is better, how?!?  But I say,  "Oh?"

"She's reacting to pain in her feet, (squeeze - MEOW!  squeeze - MEOW!) Brighter eyed.  She's definitely improved."

"She has?"  A sliver of hope opens within my chest.

"Definitely.  I think you should keep an eye on her over the weekend and then check in on Monday with us."

I scritch Minuit's ears.  "You hear that beast?  You have a reprieve."  I decide to use scare tactics.  "But I'm telling you babe, you gotta start moving your back end soon or it's 'coitans' for you, 'coitans', I tell you."

We're in the waiting room.  I'm prepping to pay.  The cat cage is open on the floor, Rissa's hand is inside, scratching under Minuit's chin.  I'm wincing at the counter, as today's total of vet fees gets tallied.

"MUMMY!"

I turn around.  Minuit is now out of the cage by at least 2 feet.  She looks at me - gives me a pointed, "Don't give up on me" look, and stumps the two feet back into her cage and settles down once more.

"See?" I said to the vet.  "Nothing like a good threat of euthanasia to get a cat motivated to heal."

The Human Whisperer

It was one of the worst days of my life. My friend Shannon had died. It was about 2 weeks after she'd had a successful stem cell transplant - her prognosis had been good. Except now she was dead. I almost threw up when her partner John told me, my knees threatened to buckle, white-knuckled fingers held the top of our kitchen island so that I wouldn't crumble. The rest of my day was bi-polar.  I'd be okay for a few minutes, but then I'd choke on sobs - I couldn't breathe. The pit of my stomach was roiling - my own internal hurricane - I kept swallowing bile.

We watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - a really bad choice when one of your best friends has just died. Life and death are so skewed in that film. I collapsed in bed at the end of the night - another crying jag - David smoothing his hands across my back - me trying to catch my breath - clutching for calm before the emotions slammed me again.

Our cat, Minuit, leapt onto the bed. She dropped a soft toy on my chest. It was part of a monster doll set - little plush pieces that velcroed together - you could add an arm or an extra eye, a tail or horns - like making your very own tribe of Wild Things.

"Honey," I said to her. "I can't.  I can't play right now." Minuit liked you to throw the toy and she'd fetch it for you - it was one of her favourite games. I took the toy away and stashed it in my bedside table.  David held me as I started to cry once more.

A few minutes later, Minuit dropped another piece on me.

"Minuit. No. I can't." That piece, too, ended up in the bedside table.

A few minutes later - another piece, and then, when I refused the throw that one, another...  and another... and another...

She didn't want to play. She was bringing me gifts. We were on the second floor, and every time I took a toy, she'd tromp two floors down to the basement - jump into the toy box to find a piece and she'd offer it to me. 

I guess she didn't know what else to do, given my bouts of hysterical sobbing. She was giving me the equivalent of dead mice - she wanted me to feel better. It went on for about half and hour. I found myself laughing and crying, with 23 monster toy pieces in the bedside table by the time she was done. Then, she lay beside me, pressed to my side - pumping her paws against my ribs to let me know that she was there.

So go ahead, try and tell me that cats are anti-social. You're wrong.

I'm going to die - I just know it!

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.  Yowl.  Yowl.

David and I share a glance.  Shake our heads.

Thud.  Thud.  More pitiful yowl.

"I don't understand why she has to be in here with us.  Rissa's door is wide open - she could just be in there."

Thud. Thud.  THUD.

We jump.

"She put her whole body into that one."

"Is she actually running at the door?"

Then we hear this:

"Oh woe is me!  WOE is me.  WAILEY!  WAILEY!  WAILEY!  I'm going to die - I just know it!  If you don't let me in, I will actually perish here in the hall and you shall have to step over my limp, lifeless body in the morning. WOE is me.  WOE!  WOE IS ME!!!"

At least we hear the cat equivalent of that - which is much more pitiful and sounds closer to death.  But we remained strong.  We wanted a good night's sleep and when the cats sleep on/with us - we don't have a good night's sleep.  Eventually Minuit left.

This morning...

Thud.  Thud.  THUD.  "I'm still here.  I can totally hear you two talking.  I know you're awake.  Why must you torture me?  All I want to do is share my love with you and purr.  Can you blame me for that?   Is it too much to ask to let your cat, your oldest cat, your most beloved cat, purr for you?!?"

That cat has stamina.

My cat suffers from dementia.

You wouldn't think her head could do a 360 would you?

Or she's possessed.  It's an either/or I think.

We were all lazing about during the Christmas holidays - comfy and cozy in the family room - in front of the fireplace, and Minuit - the most crotchety of our beasts - went cuckoo bananas.

Not the most sociable of cats, Minuit routinely growls when the doorbell rings before waddling away to hide. This was different.  Nobody at the door.  No loud noises.  She wasn't startled by anything.  She's sitting there - eyebrows pitched in an evil tilt - growling... at... Lola.  Younger black feline Lola, is not a new addition to our household.  She's been here over 2 years now.  But there was Minuit - growling - her fur standing up on her neck. And then Lola, worried that she might get attacked - got her back up.  Deeper growling - yowls - our aged Minuit had morphed into the vocal equivalent of two tom cats marking their territory.  Deep, throaty, ANGRY growls - now at Steve, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

So?  What do we need here?  A cat whisperer or an exorcist?

And if it IS dementia - how do we properly deal with her new condition? 'Cause your gut impulse is to say, "Minuit, get a grip!  It's your sister Lola... Don't you remember her? (In a louder clear voice)  It's LOLA AND STEVE... YOU KNOW... LOLA AND STEVE..."  Which is possibly the worst thing that you can say to a dementia sufferer.  If they don't remember at that precise moment, they DON'T remember - calling them on it will only confuse them and make them more anxious.  (It's kind of like saying "No, Nana - you're losing your memory, but I'll badger you about it so that I'LL feel better.)

Not to anthropomorphize Minuit, but she does have a brain - so the next time that she loses it - maybe proper introductions are in order?  Spray the other cats with positive feline pheromones?  Suggestions?

And here I'd thought I'd just been horny...

Period.  Last week.  Mon - Friday.  Growling, irritable, drugged up, clutching the heated blanket.  Then the weekend arrived, and I felt GREAT!  Fantastic even.  Randy.  Giving David those looks - waggling of the eyebrows - half-smiles and suggestive telepathy.  Couldn't get enough of him.  We'd finish one bout of naked wrestling before, barely giving him time to breathe, I wanted more.

Should have recognized the signs.  I always get horny... right before my period.  So I shouldn't have been surprised Monday morning when I discovered that Aunt Flo was back.

WHAT THE?!?  OH COME ON!!!

Two days people.  Two frickin' days.  After months of relative regularity, the roller coaster seems to be back.  Not quite the Leviathan, but definitely Behemoth-like in annoyance level.  Irritated by everything.  The cats meowing, the kettle taking too long to boil, David asking me, "What's wrong love?"

"NOTHING!  NOTHING IS WRONG!  I have NO reason to want to weep inconsolably NONE!!!  Other than the fact that my hormones have apparently decided to go on freaking WALKABOUT! and I can't do ANYTHING about it!!!"  I then face planted onto the keyboard.

David made a move as if to come an hug me - though better of it and stayed where he was.

"I need to watch something stupid with animals in it."

Feeling like WRATH personified?  Try this instead:

Stop me before I adopt again!

I've started trolling the Humane Societies.  The Rescues.  The Dog Associations.  I've got the bug.  And once I've got the bug - I can't be stopped.  We may as well just say that we'll have a dog for Christmas.

Butch - possibly my undoing...

On a recent walk, David and I both agreed that we'd be willing to bring another dog into our lives.  (I might have put the idea in his head, but he didn't fight too hard.)  Provided that it was the 'right' dog.  Provided that said dog was a senior canine, calm, good with cats, good with kids and no bigger than medium-sized.  Those were the same criteria we had the last time we did this.

That's when we adopted Sheta, a shepherd/husky cross, who was at least 10 years old - she'd been surrendered when her owner went into palliative care.  She met all the criteria except she was HUGE, but I knew the moment I saw her that she was right for us.  We'd looked at a few other dogs and they didn't fit, they weren't right.  It's funny that...  I'm a lover of all animals - could sweep them all up in my arms and cuddle them.  Show me a litter of kittens and I could pick almost any of them at random, blindfolded even - I wouldn't need to bond.  Maybe because I know that cats generally don't give a rat's ass about their owners.  Dogs though... dogs bond.  And finding a dog is akin to falling in love.  Sheta was a great dog for our family, having her for the last 2.5 years of her life was a privilege.  

Last night I was looking at head shots - a lab here, a bloodhound there... a bearded collie...  I have this thing for hairy dogs.  I have this thing for ugly dogs.  Ugly hairy dogs?  My undoing.  I grew up a cat person.  We did have a dog, Paws, from the time I was 11, but our family sucked at being dog owners.  We never walked her enough.  We never played with her enough.  As a grown-up, I know what to do with dogs now. Sheta had some pretty sweet golden years.

I don't exactly know why I have the bug now.  I did babysit a sweet little dog a couple of months back, but I didn't immediately feel the need for one.  I would have been cool with just babysitting.   Now, though, my gut's saying it's time.  And as a person who generally goes by her gut, that pretty much means it's game over.

Last night as David and I were in the office, I kept sending him links to dogs.  I didn't say a word.  Didn't want to distract him too much from his work.

He just sighed.  "You're hopeless."

"No I'm not, I'm hopeful."

I have a sneaky suspicion that we'll be visiting the local shelter and Humane Society this week.  You know... just to see.

I am the dog?!? I am the dog?!?

"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA!!!  Look at them!  LOOK AT THEM!!!"

"You're a dog!"  says Rissa.

"No, I'm not!"  says I.

"You're totally a dog.  You're all like...  talking, talking, talking, conversing while walking...
SQUIRREL!!!!"

"You can't tell me that you weren't entertained watching those two squirrels chase each other around and around that pine tree.  And then when they went from the pine tree over to the maple tree and did it again? Classic squirrel."

"You are a dog."

"I'm totally NOT a dog.  It's just that squirrels are the kings of slapsti... HEY! ANOTHER SQUIRREL!!!"

"I told you!"

"But just look at him!  He's holding a nut between his little paws!"

I don't carry a cell phone with me to take my own pictures.
This is NOT my actual squirrel. 
Mine was in a tree, but it was even cuter than this one.

"TOLD YOU SO!"

"Yes, but I'd do it with any cute animal.  Cats.  Bunnies.  Kangaroos..."

"Kangaroos?  If there were kangaroos chasing each other around the trunk of a tree I'd watch that."

"See?  You'd stop and notice them.  Basically your speciesist."

"Speciesist?"

"You're speciesist.  If those squirrels were not run-of-the-mill squirrels, but kangaroos instead, you would pay attention, you'd get excited.  SQUIRREL RIGHTS!  SQUIRREL RIGHTS!!!"

"KANGAROO RIGHTS!  KANGAROO RIGHTS!!!"

This might be when the cars started slowing down to rubber-neck.

And that's why David needs to wear a cup at home....

WARNING: There are inferred epithets in this post.

"HOLY $*&!  MOTHER - &@%!%#  JESUS! "

After dinner, on the nights when we're not over-programmed to the nth degree - David likes to change into his pj pants and a nice warm sweater.  We'll snuggle in on the family room sofa and he'll either read or work on his laptop or we'll watch TV.

Our cats, it seems, have pre-cognition.  As soon as David's pajama'd lap becomes available - all three of them appear.  Never when he's in jeans.  It's like the sound of him sitting in the cotton jersey has special appeal.

Minuit is usually the first up.  She hefts herself on to the couch and starts kneading his leg.  David will absently pat her on the head.  This is when she either a) begins to feel a little amorous herself and wants to reciprocate or b) has a mean streak in her.  Her paws move to David's groinal region and she'll invariably locate his balls.  At 15 lbs, Minuit provides a fair amount of weight behind her palpation of his, uh... boys...

"MINUIT!  NO!  NO!  #$*&-SUCKING FELINE!!"

"I think, for accuracy's sake that should be #$*&-PRODDING feline, hon.  The other just goes way over the line into bestiality."

If he has patience, Minuit ends up thrust onto my lap where I have no external organs to be damaged.   If he doesn't have patience, she may wind up testing the "Do cats always land on their feet?" theory.   On a really good night, say after Minuit has conferred with her furry siblings, there will be a parade of pussy cats all wanting to enjoy the thrills of David's lap.  Maybe it's like their own version of A Night of Living Dangerously.

"I need a cup to watch TV."

"Maybe if you're good, you'll get one for Christmas." 

Cat proofing the kitchen...

thump...  thump...  thump...

I didn't think they were that smart.  Minuit, in particular, seems like she doesn't have two synapses to rub together.  Steve will frequently roll off the ottoman by accident and Lola - well Lola is the sneakiest of the bunch - but it's not like she's doing cat calculus in her spare time.

Someone may have been slipping them some organic brain stimulant.  They are now remembering things.  Like where we keep the cat kibble.

thump...  thump...  thump...

I'm not saying that we have a CATS of NIMH case on our hands, but two days ago, they all looked at the kibble bag as if it was some master illusionist, magically appearing from NOWHERE, and then yesterday?

They started opening the cupboard door where it's kept.    It's not really like they can open the bag itself, because they don't have opposable thumbs (yet), but they can sure as shit bite through the side of the bag  guaranteeing that their food goes stale.  Although really, fresh cat kibble and stale cat kibble... I've tried them both and neither is particularly tasty to my palate.

So now we have the toddler locks on the cupboard.  And the sad sound that we hear from our starving felines is...

thump...  thump...  thump...

...as they attempt to circumvent our security system.  I'll have to be on the watch to see if they mount a B&E into David's makeshift workshop in the basement.  If they learn how to use tools we're totally screwed.

I think I might have to report my cat to Interpol...

Lola is a cat burglar. I mean literally. Our smallest black cat... burgles. She has a penchant for jewelry.  She must be part magpie. Which is a cute little quirk generally, except that a while back she stole one of my most adored pieces of jewelery - a pendant from my friend Shannon. I'm pretty sure Lola's stashed it in her secret cat cache of stolen goods. I'm hoping I'll be able to find it before she puts it on the black market.

And because she, like the other cats in the house, can't actually talk, she won't tell me where this secret cache is.  I've been looking under beds and dressers, carpets.  I've pleaded with her, tears have been shed, but to no avail.

Thing is?  This particular piece of jewelery is one of the last presents that my friend Shan gave to me before she died. I've been using it as a talisman - a memento amicus as it were. I would feel the roundness of the blown glass against my throat and it would calm me, I'd feel better, feel closer to her, the pain would disperse just that little bit. And you need that when you've lost a friend so young in life.  She was only 41. I desperately needed that object I could palm in my hand and think She touched this too.  She chose this with love.

I keep thinking, Maybe it'll be here, in the bottom of this bag. I'll step on something under a rug and my heart will leap, Is this it?? And it never is. And it's now been months and when I reach for it in my jewelery box there are mornings I'm near tears with its loss.

So I'm going to find another one; or have it made... whatever the case, I will have a pendant of the same shape, size and colour and I will imbue it with all my best memories of her. It is, after all, just an object. Shannon was not that piece of turquoise and lavender glass. But in my mind somehow, this object had become that tie to her. My attempts to describe her would probably sound corny and clichéd.  But those clichés become what they are because there is that truth in them, that truth to them.

Shannon was a fierce friend. Shannon's smile could power the Eastern Seaboard in a blackout. Shannon had this ridiculous vaudeville-esque finger magic trick, that wasn't her trick at all, but rather her version of her father's trick, that always made me laugh. Shannon would sing to you because the lyrics of that particular song were perfect for the moment and would bring you solace. I haven't beatified her in death. I didn't have to. She was pretty damned perfect on her own. Which is why instead of bemoaning my lost tie to her, I'm making another one that I can hold and take comfort in. And if that disappears into the ether, I'll create another. Its tangible weight in my hand will give me strength. Just as she did.

Love you Shan.

ps. How bad days become brilliant...

Did you feel the earthquake?

8:02 a.m. Eastern Time.  I was dozing in bed, desperate to grab any extra resting time.  The smallest of shudders had me opening my eyes.  The bed was moving.  It stopped.  I must have been dreaming it.  (I was somewhat stoned on a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen - DAY 1 of my period.  I'd arisen at 6:30 and doped myself up as best as I could - building a chemical fortress against the cramping.)  The bed moved again, more violently, for a longer period of time.  What the...?  I sat up - ready to grab onto the bedside table lamp in case it crashed to the ground.  Was this the BIG ONE?

Then I saw her.  Minuit.  Our biggest and most irritable of cats.  She was on the bed.  Scratching behind her left ear.  Raccoon-like in size, when Minuit uses her full energy to scratch behind her ears, it can apparently be mistaken for an earthquake. Our fat cat has some incredibly powerful haunches.  She could double as the motor for one of those cheap motel vibrating beds.

I slumped back down onto my back.  I could maybe steal another 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep before having to get up and get ready for work.  If I did nothing more than brush my teeth and put deodorant on, I could maybe have 40 minutes. 

Knowing that I was awake, Minuit made her way up the bed... Doing her best Edward G. Robinson*  "Meah.... Meah...,"  she placed her front paws on my stomach and began to palpate, which this morning, with the strength of her considerable weight behind her?  Was the best ovarian massage that I've ever felt.  There are definite perks to having a fat cat.

*Minuit sounds exactly like Mel Blanc
doing an impersonation of Edward G. Robinson.
  At 2:17 into the clip you get the full effect.
Instead of "Yeah, Yeah" insert "Meah, Meah."

Have you experienced the Cat Olympics?

Last night.  High Jump.  Vault.  100 Metre Dash.  One of my favourites was the synchronized diving.  Watching cats accomplish such a feat - takes your breath away.  Literally.  It literally takes your breath away.  When cats land on you,  from a great height, in the middle of the night - the wind is knocked out of you.  Each of us with 15 lb cats on our diaphragms - couldn't even yell out in surprise - there was no air within us to yell.  The subsequent hurdles at 2:00 a.m. were spectacular.

I'm thinking it's the cooler fall temperatures. All three of them seem to have lost their minds.  The relay races  in the upstairs hallway alone have turned our house into the CN Freight Line.  Lola has been in training for track.  She is in compulsive fetching mode.  This week her toy of choice  is a makeup sponge Rissa has been using for face painting.  There were a bunch of them drying on the counter beside the sink.   Lola found them on the counter and began bringing them to me.  I hid them in a container on the counter, but she found that too.  Then I hid them in a bag on the kitchen table, which she also found.  At that point I figured she was just watching me hide them so I tossed her one.  She's been it ever since.  At what point can we begin to make money off this talent?

Lola, mid-fetch

Is this a healthy hookup?

I have to ask.  When someone you love suddenly becomes completely enamoured with an... uh... we'll call it an appliance... to the exclusion of their other toys... Should you do something about it?  Or should you just let them have their moment and hope that they'll eventually move on and not hurt themselves in the mean time?

Minuit has hooked up with our Universal Remote.  We tried to take it away from her, but she... uh... she couldn't be dissuaded.  She actually growled and bared her teeth.  I'm hoping that it's just a phase.   Could be worse I guess.  She could be huffing catnip.

 

Dear Abby: I think my cat's into kink

Steve didn't show up for breakfast on Saturday morning.   Which worried the crap out of me because the last time Steve didn't show up for food, he almost died and we spent $1400 at the vet.  My heart sank.  I was going to find him dead.  I was going to go down into the basement and find my cat dead from a recurrent bladder infection.  Stupid cat.  My shoulders slumped.  I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs. 

"Steve?  Steve honey?  You okay bud?"

I peeked around the corner into our rec room.  My eyes widened.  Steve was lying by David's drum kit...  with a clear plastic bag on his head.  I thought he was dead until he let out a single pitiful meow.

"WHAT THE... STEVE!  STEVE!!!"

I rushed over and took the bag off his head, he didn't fight me, didn't look freaked out - kind of looked stoned.  I don't know exactly how long his head had been in the bag, but the bag...  it had water in the bottom of it from where, I'm just postulating here, Steve drooled into it.  I didn't technically find the cat with his pants down, 'cause cats don't wear pants, but I think we can safely say that this is what it looked like:  Feline Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation.  I know, I know... what grown cats do in their private time should stay private, but Steve's kink almost got him killed.  9 lives.  8 lives.  We're on life #7 folks, and if these things come in threes, I shudder at what I'll find him doing next.

Snatched from the jaws of death...

So basically, if you threaten a cat with euthanasia?  They get better.  That's what happened to Steve.  One day at death's door ...  Me checking in on him every two hours overnight as he was sequestered in our main floor bathroom.  Him just lying there - near flat as a pancake and all glassy-eyed.  And I'd basically prepared myself for taking him in the next morning and giving the order.  The "put him out of his misery" order.  Except that the next morning - there he was sitting up and when I called his name, he actually looked at me, all clear-eyed and on the cusp of being alert. 

Apparently, each beast we own gets one funding of extraordinary measures.  We give them that one brush with death.  That near-cross on the River Styx.  It's happened with a bunch of our cats.  Nym - $900 who then managed to live another couple of years.  Bardolph - $1800 - for a month I had to feed that frickin' cat through a tube in his neck because he refused to eat - and then he was all better and lived another 4 years.  So they each get their one episode.  They either bounce back, or they get put down.  We prepare for the worst - know when to cut our losses and they sense it.  They know that if they want to remain on this mortal coil they perk the fuck up and live.

And for that I'm thankful.  Because Steve is the greatest cat.  He is a cat of epic personality and snuggliness.  It would have sucked to put him down.  And now?  After a 1/2 dozen visits and re-checks from our amazing vet team, he lies on the foot of our bed and purrs.  Yesterday, he started playing again - chasing after toys, cavorting under my feet.  He's back.

ps - We are the human parents of a feline rock star.  Every single person working at the vet clinic knows and loves Steve.  "STEVE!"  "Hey buddy!"  "Hiya handsome!"  "How's Mr. Steve?"   Nobody there knows my name, but by God they were pulling for my orange tabby.  My cat.  My goofy and personable cat had everyone in that clinic wrapped around his paw - that positive psychic energy may well be what saved him.

What would you pay for this cat?

His name is Steve.  He's an orange tabby.  Sure, exceptionally affectionate and purrs up a storm, but really your typical tom cat.  If I were to put him up on Ebay, or Kijiji - what do you think he'd go for?  Any guesses?   $100?  $500?  How about $1000?  This cat must have freakin' gold in his faulty kidneys, because as of last night, Steve is worth $1232.38.  One Thousand, Two Hundred, Thirty-Two dollars and 38 cents. 

He's supposed to be dead.  If we'd done what we'd said we were going to do, we'd have had the vet call our animal care proxy, and Steve would now be dead on account of the fact that he's past the $500 mark.  Once it gets to $500 we're supposed to get the vet to call our friend Narda and she's supposed to say "Kill it," when we can't.  (She's also our medical proxy in the event that someone has to pull the plug on us; with the proviso that she has to laugh maniacally and say "Revenge is mine!" after we've been declared dead.)

I know, I know, you don't want to put a monetary value on your love for a treasured pet... but for a cat we got FOR FREE... $1200 freaking dollars?  Steve went in to the vet's on Thursday night - and by Friday when I thought to inquire as to the balance, we were at $800 and change.  Which is why Narda didn't get a call 'cause it was already past the $500 mark.  And now we're into increments.

"Okay, we'll do the x-rays to see if he has stones in his bladder, but if he has stones, we're not operating."  (Suitably heartless gesture of  fingers slicing across the jugular, with accompanying gurgling/choking noise).

"Okay, we'll let you 'relax' him so that you can express his bladder, but if you have to catheterize again, he's done."  (Again with the heartless gesture.)

Treating a cat with a bladder infection is kind of like being a compulsive gambler or playing the stock market.  If I play one more round, just one more round, if I make this one last investment, I'll make my money back, except you won't - what you get in the end might be a healthy cat.  Or you might not.  But now, after having poured so much money into the cat, if we stop treatment - we have literally just wasted all of that money.

We could still lose this sucker all on account of the fact that animals are poorly engineered and can't talk.  They can't say "Ummmmm, excuse me?  It's hurts when I pee."  Cats are healthy, healthy, healthy... until they're NOT.  Until they almost drop dead.  That seems like a pretty big evolutionary flaw to me.  You get this close to death from a bladder infection? What the hell is that? 

So that means, as of today, Steve is worth about $3.37 a day over 365 days.  And I think he's worth that.  For the sheer joy that he gives me, when he demands to snuggle down under the blankets at bedtime and curls into the crook of my arm.  Now, if that were to be $13.69 a day?  Not so sure.  We don't have that spare money just sitting around.  The last time one of our cats got really sick, David had just received an inheritance.  We couldn't say we couldn't afford to treat the cat, because at that time?  We could.

Now?  We need to re-roof our house - we're going to have to do that on a payment plan.  I just spent my entire month's wages on possibly fixing a cat.  I had to move money around from our already overly-extended credit line to make sure there was room on my Visa.

There are those who will think that I'm stupid for putting that kind of money into an animal.  There are those who think I'm heartless for even contemplating having him put down, when just another $1000 or $2000 would ensure his health.  I'm driven by guilt and finances and... love.  LOVE.  For this stupid cat who couldn't tell me before he was at death's door that it hurt when he peed.

Cannibal Chickens

Lesley has chicks.  Baby chicken-type chicks.  In her house.  Four adorable balls of feathery fluff.  I can barely contain my "squeeeee" of joy within the confines of my head.  I have picked them all up - pressed them against my cheek.  They are fluffy yellow examples of the perfection of our universe.

I just found out that these chicks are 'eating chicks.'  By that, they are meant for eating.  Not, as Rissa and David supposed when I explained this to them, cannibal chicks who are eating other chicks.  Lesley will be slaughtering these chicks after they become full-grown chickens, and then, she will eat them.  These baby chicks whom I pressed to my cheek.

And I'm going to help her do that.  Because I think I need to know how to do this.  You know, when Armageddon comes, we'll all be living on homesteads in the remaining wilds of Canada raising our own food, and I'm going to need to know how to slaughter chickens and whatever else that can be food, including humans.  'Cause ME turning into a cannibal??  After Armageddon, that's gonna be an eventuality.  I know human is supposed to taste like chicken and all that, but say you've spent the last several months/years with George the cobbler, or ferrier or whatever in post-Armageddon times George does... I don't know if I'm going to be able to eat George on account of the fact that we'd have had a relationship of sorts, you know because he makes my shoes or puts shoes on my horse - which is all we'll have left for transport, because it's after Armageddon and we'll all be riding horse or elk or reindeer - and then when the regular food runs out we're going to have eat the Georges of this world  and I want to be prepared for that eventuality. So I'm starting with chicks.   

Raccoons are dealing crack in my attic

You know how some people don't want to go to the doctor because they just know it's going to be bad news?  We don't want to put our extension ladder up to the roof for the same reason. In spite of the fact that our good neighbour Neil was pretty sure he saw a family of raccoons shinnying up our drain pipe and then entering our roof.  AGAIN.

Last night, as I was typing this, I heard bigger-than-squirrel noises coming from our eaves.  Which means we're going to have to grab that extension ladder and go up and take a look.  And I just know that we're not going to like what we're going to see. 

Raccoons with switch blades, dealing crack. 

That's what we're going to find.  And holes in our roof.  Ginormous-freaking holes that will have to be repaired.

This spring, I was focused on combatting dandelions - not varmints.  I was planning that kind of attack.  Now we have to evict a raccoon colony from our roof.  Can we use Indiegogo or Kickstarter to raise funds for this?  I know!  I could turn it into performance art!  I'll film it in B&W and use subtitles.

We totally would have had the funds to do the roof this year if we hadn't had to pay if I weren't so freaking honest and demanded that David claim all the income he made from self-employment this year, thereby owing a nauseau-inducing tax amount to the CRA.  Damn me and my wanting to support better education and healthcare in our country!  What the hell is wrong with me?  Why couldn't I just LIE like everyone else?

We headed to bed, but the party above us was so loud that David decided that he'd to take a look.  Naked.  In the dark.  He wanted to suss out the situation and see if he could spy the raccoons out the back window, you know, surreptitious-like.  Instead, he found himself in the middle of the dark attic, hearing close-up raccoon noises that made it sound as if he were surrounded.  Naked.  In the dark.  By raccoons with switch blades dealing crack.  Then,  as I lay in the room below all this, David lost his mind.

The pounding and growling began... 

BANG!  BANG-BANG-BANG!   BANG!  BANG-BANG-BANG!
GROWL!!!  

A Stomp-esque musical number from my vantage point. It went on for a good 7 minutes. I'm surprised that Rissa didn't wake from the pandemonium.  Eventually, David returned to bed.

"Are they gone now," I asked.

"No."  There was a pout in his voice.

"Still in the roof?"

"They are partying over-top of the light fixture.  I'd bang and then they'd skitter away, but then they'd come right back. Taunting me... Banging back...  'Oh yeah!?!  You're going to bang at us?  How about this!?!' "

He put his head on my chest.  "We're going to have to go up with the ladder, aren't we?"

"Yep."

ps.  So we got the ladder out.  It became immediately apparent that the raccoons had eaten their way AROUND the boards that we had placed over their old entry points.  Note to self: find extra money to put sheet metal on the eaves when we fix the roof.

You Tube Taster's Menu - or how to never accomplish anything in a day

It's Rissa's fault.  She sent me a video,  "Orangutan makes friend with dog."  Next thing you know, I'm using the You Tube taster's menu down the right side of the page.  Instead of exercising before work, I'm surfing You Tube - watching dozens of animals videos.   I could have at least gone into work early, so that I could leave early and then exercise.

I'm watching, "Tiger vs Orangutan," "Silverback Gorilla Meets Tourist," which then morphs to "Toddler falls in Gorilla Cage," "Lioness offering her newborn cub to Kevin Richardson," "Reunion between Anita and the wolves," "Woman details cat - mountain lion encounter," "Housecat meets bobcat," "!!!Squirrel adopted by cat learns to purr," and what may be my most favourite 13 seconds of video ever (from 0:05 - to 0:18): "Foxes Jumping on my Trampoline."   Note to self:  do not open You Tube when you are at all hormonal.

Frenzied Feline Ferocity

Every morning outside our door, the cats lie in wait.  Pawing first.  Then head-butting.  Then heaving their shoulders into it.  Chirping, meowing, then yowling follows.  Lola's the yowler.  She yowls when Minuit growls then bites her.  Minuit is NOT a morning cat. Steve, our dopey orange male, runs up and down the upstairs hallway any time it seems that someone is close to rising from between the sheets.

We learned not to leave the door open.  Because if we leave the door open?  Then we basically live Simon's Cat  ... x 3 cats - one of whom, when she walks on your abdominal aorta, can actually make you pass out.  FYI - Simon Tofield's cat animation is pretty close to perfect - quite a feat with simple line drawings.