There Are Worse Things

Ah, the acrid pineapple-y smell of cat pee emanating from my favorite quilt. The pineapple-y-ness of it is peculiar to Sam-I-Am, the eldest cat of The Feline Triumvirate.

Yep, that's him in the photo on the left. He was trying to stare the camera down that day.

He's had a rough week and I hope this most recent attack on my quilt is a territory issue and not the return of his kidney disease. He is nestled next to me now -- but he does not look quite right.

His nose is wet. Not too wet. Just the right amount of wet. He's not dehydrated.

He lets my hands gently probe his body, though he is giving me warning glances, and one love bite. The next bite may not be so kind.

We worry, as we spring clean The Manor, that perhaps he got into some of the chemicals necessary to the endeavor. Degreasers. Sealants. Various forms of detergent, waxes, paint, lacquers.

But he's a very smart cat and I don't think he will ingest anything he doesn't recognize, although in a period of intoxication, who knows? And I admit to dosing all three cats with the new kick-ass Cosmic Catnip that Fred picked up at the Tête de Hergé Pet-O-Rama. He had a 10% off coupon but doesn't use it to buy cat FOOD, no! The Fredster gets kitty marijuana.

Anyway -- background, you need background. Little Boy, who is Marmy's brother, showed up on the drawbridge as I was doing its annual weather- and water- proofing. He looked horrible -- an absolutely filthy long-hair with some bare patches and a wound on his left rear leg. Little Boy was walking gingerly. Like the rest of his relatives, he's a talkative guy and we had a nice chat.

He has the biggest balls I've ever seen. On a cat.

Really prominent.

Fred befriended Marmy and Little Boy two years ago, back when Sammy ruled the roost. It was a very cold Spring and the two of them were miserable and homeless. Sammy, of course, has been neutered and the prospect of bringing in an non-neutered male to live with this already neurotic feline was not appealing. Besides, Marmy's belly almost touched the ground, and she was sway-backed and frustrated to no end -- so very pregnant. So we brought her into Marlinspike Hall to live and have her litter, but remained committed to feeding Little Boy and generally looking out for him and his big balls.

Marmy proved to be essentially, fundamentally psychotic. The psychodynamics of The Manor were complex.

Sam-I-Am was so afraid of her that we had to *carry* him past her to the gilt litter box. And back again -- he refused to come out of our suite. As the weeks went by, her reign became more and more imperious and, possibly -- though it pains me to admit it -- Socialist.

After an interminable wait, she had five kittens: Pretty Girl, Pretty Boy, Mascara, Speckle-Belly-White-Foot, and The Runt (who became Dobby, Our Little Idiot).

Actually, she had four. Fred delivered The Runt, Dobby -- she had completely lost interest in pushing out the last one. The whole affair seemed to bore her to tears.

Outside of my own human biological mother, I have never encountered a creature with less maternal instinct. Of course, Marmy was only eight months old, herself. Babies having babies... the scourge of our society.

She would do things like stand up and walk away while the five kittens were latched on to her, busily nursing. As she walked, they would drop off of her, one by one -- their eyes weren't even open. We found poor mewling babies everywhere, with no Marmy in sight.

She would hiss at them (this was before she perfected her *ack*-*ack*-*ack* technique).

Anyway -- about that time, Little Boy up and disappeared. I wasn't worried but Fred had major guilt at having taken in his sister and leaving the big balled guy to fend for himself. From then on, we only had sporadic visits.

So, Monday, he is back and looks awful. We have fed and watered him every day, and I believe he is recovering somewhat. It is clear that he values a relationship with Fred that goes beyond food -- they sit and talk to each other late into the night. We have some antibiotics that were prescribed for his sibling at some point, but are holding off giving them. I am not sure he would take kindly to being given a pill.

Then, Sammy began his Dark Days of the Soul. He howls at the windows -- yes, cats can howl. Hyena-esque. Also growl -- which is what he did all night last night. The scent of Little Boy is driving him nuts, poor thing.

He is pissing inappropriately. On. My. Stuff. Apparently, he owns me.

There are worse things.

This evening, Sammy failed to do his Dinner Routine, and this is a cat that places a high degree of currency on things like "Liver and Bacon" and "Ocean Whitefish." He campaigns for his dinner starting at 5 pm, usually, and we relent at about 6:30. Tonight, he didn't budge from the warmth of MY pillow. Most nights, he picks out the can he wants -- it's hilarious! Tonight, he walked away from me, who had food in hand. His gait was stiff and he just didn't look right.

But he downed all the food (Marmy and Dobby eat in the kitchen) and I stopped worrying. Until I saw the tell-tale Assumption of the Position -- known by cat-worshipers as The Assumpsiation.

That makes two days in a row that he has relieved himself on that wonderful quilt. The whole while, he fixes me in a frightening stare. I feel like crying out: I get it, I get it! There is another boy here and he's scaring you and you don't see me doing a blessed thing to help you out! I get it and I promise to do better, my old friend!

Now, though, I am so worried about him that there was no fussing. Instead, I've wrapped him in a soft throw, stroked his beautiful grey head, and he has drifted off. I cannot explain what is wrong -- I "just know" that we are in for a scare. He gets pretty ill with this kidney crystal thing about every two years. We have nursed him back to good health at least a half dozen times (under the guidance of our dear vet).

Only now, his physical discomfort has psychic dimensions, psychic symptoms, and he doesn't understand what's going on. His eyes tell me that if I would just ban Little Boy from The Grounds, he would be fine again.

I'm gonna go start the washing machine -- so he'll have something clean to desecrate later.

He is My Good Buddy. He is Fred's Poopy-Head. He is a crazy kitten when with Dobby, and he and Marmy have developed a deep respect for one another.

When I am feeling poorly, he stays by me. He tends to listen when no one else will. He craves love and I love to love him. I don't care about his few episodes of confusion about his sexual orientation.

I don't care if I am a Cat Lady. Again, there are worse things.

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Update: Sam-I-Am seems to be back to his perky self today. Absolutely fine. Laughing and winking at me, even.

Cat 1, Cat Lady 0.