Thursday, April 3, 2014

On the Bow

It may shock you to learn that no one but you, yourself, is responsible for your well-being.  There are sweet people who, by virtue of their job description or their innate goodness, will attempt to be of assistance and cheer, but it's not possible for them to make things right for you.

If you are going to insist on despair as your legacy, at least have pity on these kind folk, though they rarely need protection from us narcissistic idiots, having learned the secret of personal responsibility in utero or at the knee of a benevolent adult.

Turns out that my gracious Go-To-Guy, concierge physician to the stars, is under the weather, so our appointment is off.  Feel better Go-To-Guy!  However, being an orderly sort, I'd also arranged a needed visit to the pharmacy down the road from his office, his office being many, many miles away from Marlinspike Hall.  So the trip cannot be avoided.  This was enough to bring on tears and declarations about how I simply cannot bear the pain.

Then Buddy required a wheelchair lift to the kitchen -- he simply could not get there on his own. Necessary to the voyage was his stance on my lap, butt firmly fixed against my chest, chin raised against the sea breeze, his pose as close to Kate Winslet on the Titanic's bow.  I suppose, though, that Buddy'd prefer I say it better approximated the moment of Dicaprio's declamation: "King of the World."

Once shrimpy kibble had been served the Feline Triumvirate, once Buddy was convinced there was no available human food hid in my pocket, coffee was set to steep and my fine wardrobe transferred from the washer to the workhorse dryer.  Madame Marmy flaunted her fluffy butt, her wayward tail drifting into Buddy's food bowl now and then.  Dobby eyed the progress of the coffee, and precisely at the time of its distribution into mugs and such, he scurried to my hospital bed, as The Law clearly states "[t]here shall be no consumption of hot coffee, topped with a slight milky froth, until such time as The Runt, commonly known as 'Dobby,' has been brushed and in receipt of an ardent belly rub, as well as a tender cleaning from his eyes of that material called 'gunk.'"

In the precious conversational period book-ended by coffee intake, Fred and I did a quick gloss of the well-being concept with which I opened this post.  We even covered guilt, depression, and pharmaceuticals.  In dire need of a shower, I made public confession of my inability to take one. Moving right along, however, we did manage to agree that when he commenced his own shower, I would hobble to the half-bath and do a magnificent wash up at the sink, while seated on the toilet.
In sparkling synchronicity, we will emerge, like Venus on the half shell, cresting the waning waves as one, and hop into Ruby the Honda CRV and set out to do what needs to be done, impervious to the Human Condition.

We have two pharmacies to visit.  One for my drugs, and one that has prepared a compounding version of medicine for Marmy Fluffy Butt, who has a terrible case of the feline version of Crohn's disease.  We are having the medicine put in liquid form and chose a nice fishy taste to mask the terrible flavor of the drug.

The vet, the wonderful Dr. George, whose last name only an intrepid few attempt, gifted our girl with a Tranquility Collar.  She seems proud of it, its royal nature declared in purple hues, and displays it proudly, although with no signs -- yet -- of the promised tranquility.  She still believes Fred has betrayed her, allowing unspeakable examinations of her private regions, forcing foul-tasting goo down her throat.  She clings to me, and glares at him.

We hope that she will be fine, and soon.

Have a good day.

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