The Water Bowl / Dobbox / The Hoyer

You know how we love Dobby, how iconic he is, on top of being a big-eyed, star-faced angel. No matter the more perfect photos we get, we return to this one, "dobbox." Fred was working in the Computer Turret, caught up in an ADHD bit of hyperfocus and entrepreneurship, hence the waiting Priority Mail box.  Fred noticed Dobby as he first sat to deal with his antique Leica buyer -- those eyes, that trusting stare, are impossible to miss.  Some 40 minutes later, Dobby had not moved, his eyes had not wavered, constricted, nor his hope for some Fred Time.

Recently, we acquired a Hoyer Lift as part of my new bedroom décor.  It terrified all the cats.  The Hoyer is big, moves suddenly, inexplicably, and has replaced the comfy wheelchair at bedside.  The most movement, welcoming or aggressive, observed, have been hit-and-run paw slaps at very high speeds, followed by deep angled skids out the bedroom door.

This morning, though, the very slight routine the cats and I have established was disturbed.
Buddy was on my head, CHECK.
Marmy was on my full bladder, CHECK.
Dobby was nestled against my right arm... NO... and... NOWHERE to be found.

Buddy and Marmy, perturbed, scoped the bed, my body, the room, the house, and returned. About to use our high tech intercom system to wake Fred for a Dobby Search, the two cats and I saw the famous star face rise slowly above the slung sling of the... Hoyer Lift.  He yawned. Buddy's considerable jaw dropped and he backed out of the room toward the kitchen, and familiar food, familiar sights.  Marmy, subject to multiple personality disorders and close to becoming feral again, gave *me* a dirty look.  I guess the Hoyer is my fault, ultimately.

Were I as smart as my smart phone, we might have had a photo to compete with "dobbox."
And I am pretty sure that the Hoyer and Dobby are secret sharing.

REPOST.

*****     *****     *****     ******     *****     *****     ******

Dobby, Our Little Idiot, is unusual.  Still, his latest peculiarity, begun this morning, as far as I can figure, has me stumped.  Though odd, he is usually fairly logical.  For a cat.

He is talking to a bowl of water.  We have three bowls of water for the cats.  Perhaps that's an overreaction to having lost felines to kidney disease, but we are obsessive about making sure they all have access to fresh water whenever the notion of a drink may cross their tiny minds.

Dobby has bought into our obsession in a major way and has always been a little water sprite.

You know those laser lights that cats love to chase?  He's an incredible leaper, able to easily jump 6 - 7 feet high from a standstill.  I often play Laser Chase with him at night when I cannot sleep (or when he cannot, and therefore no one can!).  It's my habit to trace an up-and-down pattern across the medieval tapestries lining our Manor Suite walls, and he runs along the draperies, putting Baryshnikov to shame. 

Unless he passes a bowl of water.

He might be half way into a record-shattering 10 foot vertical leap when he spots it.  He might be running full tilt, his eyes on the prize, every muscle primed to catch His Red Laser Dot.  (If you wish to see Instant Craze, lazily ask Dobby, "Where is Your Dot?")

But water means all bets are off.  Screech. 

First, he pats it with his paws, then tastes said paws.  Next, he gives a shout-out, a loud cry that is, frankly, scary.  Lastly, he settles down for a long and noisy drink.  Then he trots to me for a congratulatory pat, as this tiny routine is of huge importance in Dobby Land.

He also does something that I now know is not all that unusual among cats: When he wishes to claim an object as his own, he will drop it in a water bowl.  Where it stays.  Unless he then fishes it out for a quick game of Post-Diluvial Soccer.  It's not that cute a behavior, given his proclivity for investing in items like eye drops, pill bottles, yarn balls, cloth toys stuffed with catnip, and whatever miniature electronic parts he can steal from Fred's workbenches, none of which take well to repeated dunkings. 

For a while, when he was competing with his four litter mates, as well as three adult cats, the shelves over The Manor's One and Only Clothes Dryer were always full of drying Dobby Things.

It becomes downright annoying when he gets the notion to thieve from within Marlinspike Hall, from Haddock Holdings  -- like... oh, I dunno... just off the top of my head:  An antique 14k gold thimble with an engraved grape-and-leaf design in its original, velvet-fitted, paper-covered box.

Or like The Captain's unparalleled collection of Miniature Animal Husbandry Electro-Ejaculators (from Cameroon).  I fear the conversation we are going to have with the Old Salt on his next inspection visit... Haddock has never really let go of his veterinary dreams.

Anyway, Dobby hasn't indulged much lately in his Dunk-It/Own-It scheme.  He's moved on.

Like I said, Dobby now talks to one of the water bowls. The red plastic one.  The two large ceramic vessels are apparent dullards.  That's not to say that I've evaluated any of them as potential interlocuteurs.  Besides, whether he's addressing the water itself, or just the bowl, or some unified vision of the two, I cannot say.

He just sits there, yakking away.

Sometimes he gives me a wink and an eyeroll, as if to say: "Can you believe the stories this water bowl comes up with? Oy!"

Truth be told, my heart is glad, as Dobby has been caught up in grieving for Sammy, whom we euthanized early in July.  He stalks around The Manor at night, calling, and remains convinced Sam-I-Am is just hiding out in the back of my wardrobe, where he sought comfort when so sick.  But these past few days, The Dobster has cheered up, for some reason. 

It's gotta be something the water bowl said.

i believe! i believe!

Renaissance Grilles / Registers /  Vent Covers  - Rectangular

it's two in the morning and my body needs rest.  the mind, though, oh, *blank* and *bleep* the mind -- like all three cats, it thinks it's time to play.  damn the kona coffee we thought it would be great to drink around 10 pm -- "it's like drinking sweet warm chocolate milk." next time, i say let's get the beans shat from the toddy cat, that shriveled civet.  let's make it worth the insomnia.

i've been low sad and high happy, and all to the tune of old music all day.  i've also had a major episode of g.i. bleeding, avec pain this time, and it has put my resolve to the test.  god's big red pen is still hovering over this day, ready to scribble all over my margins, advise an adverb for my already outrageous adjectives.  god can be a little much when it comes to composition.  someone should snatch that red pen away, just for giggles.

i stopped using red pens those last years i was grading, bleeding ink.  there is something so awful about getting a paper back with red all over it.  but then, when i began teaching in high school, i was faced with some pretty ugly results -- because the students used pens of many colors.  sometimes my red pen would have been a relief to their greens and purples and, heaven help me, even silvers and grays.  you know that sage advice -- "pick your battles"?  well, when you have kids breaking your hip, threatening to kill you, submitting suicide notes as compositions... well, the color of the ink isn't usually one of the battles worth fighting.

so low sad, high happy, all acted on a stage by an orchestra pit from which boomed old songs, most of which were not even favorites.

Truckin' - got my chips cashed in

Keep Truckin - like the doodah man
Together - more or less in line
Just keep Truckin on

Arrows of neon and flashing marquees out on Main Street
Chicago, New York, Detroit it's all on the same street
Your typical city involved in a typical daydream
Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings

Dallas - got a soft machine
Houston - too close to New Orleans
New York - got the ways and means
but just won't let you be

Most of the cats you meet on the street speak of True Love
Most of the time they're sittin and cryin at home
One of these days they know they gotta get goin
out of the door and down to the street all alone

Truckin - like the doodah man
once told me you got to play your hand
sometime - the cards ain't worth a dime
if you don't lay em down

Sometimes the light's all shining on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me
What a long strange trip it's been

What in the world ever became of sweet Jane?
She lost her sparkle, you know she isn't the same
Living on reds, vitamin C and cocaine
all a friend can say is "ain't it a shame"

Truckin' -- up to Buffalo
Been thinkin - you got to mellow slow
Takes time - you pick a place to go
and just keep Truckin on

Sitting and staring out of a hotel window 
Got a tip they're gonna kick the door in again
I'd like to get some sleep before I travel
but if you got a warrant I guess you're gonna come in

Busted - down on Bourbon Street
Set up - like a bowling pin
Knocked down - it gets to wearing thin
They just won't let you be

You're sick of hanging around and you'd like to travel
Tired of travel, you want to settle down
I guess they can't revoke your soul for trying
Get out of the door - light out and look all around

Sometimes the light's all shining on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me
what a long strange trip it's been

Truckin - I'm goin home
Whoa-oh baby, back where I belong
Back home - sit down and patch my bones
and get back Truckin on

i did accomplish something momentous, however.  i tried to pretend, for about a minute, that it was a touching thing, a heart-mover, but hell, who was i kidding?!  unless you are a longtime dear, dear reader, you know nothing of my beloved cat sammy (sam, puddin' head, stinky head, but officially "sam-i-am") and unless i want to dissolve into tears, we'll just leave it at that.  i am sure that if you enter "sam" or "sammy" into the blog search, you'll find posts and pictures of my beloved boy.

well, sammy struggled with many things.  paranoia.  mostly of marmy, whom we thrust upon him when she was 8 months old, feral, hugely pregnant, and decidedly mean.  okay, okay, she was a street urchin and had seen some damned hard times, and was wayyyy out-weighed by the five kittens inside her, so we will say instead that she was decidedly... no, i'm sorry, she was the meanest animal i'd ever met.

sammy was sensitive.  like me.  {shut up, shut up!  honey badger don't care!}  we had to pick him up and carry him past her to the litter box or he would not go.  no, instead, he would relieve himself somewhere in my vicinity, because, in sammy logic, i had brought this vicious girl upon his head.
eventually, i was feeding him in the one corner of the bedroom where he apparently felt safe. is was absolutely ridiculous but i loved him all the more for his weirdness.

later his erroneous peeing was attributed to a failed neutering, or to hyper-territoriality, or to whatever our vet's theory of the month turned out to be.  too bad that sucky vet didn't consider kidney/urinary tract disease, because that is what it was... and by the time the sucky vet figured it out, poor sammy was doomed.

we kept him alive and happy for more years than anyone thought we could -- fred and i have a knack for that.  we hope to do it for one another, but it's not working out so well.  anyway, after the horrible day we euthanized my sammy boy, on a merry fourth of july, we discovered lingering gifts when the seasons changed and we turned on the Manor's furnace.

from two vents, in particular, issued forth a smell that said "sweet sam-i-am was here" and "my goodness, how cloyingly, sickly sweet... like a terrible chablis" -- but eventually devolved into "oh god, it stinks!"

i clean like a cleaning maniac.  there's no dirt in Marlinspike Hall that isn't meant to be there -- exceptions must be made for areas of deteriorating daub-and-wattle, and some odds-and-ends of medieval stuff.  the furnace heats only the newer extensions, built by Captain Haddock's third mother-in-law, who had a thing against icicles inside her quarters.  and sammy managed to pee down at least two of the primitive registers... my sweet sammy.

well, by jove and by minerva, i solved that problem today.  we had -- ever thinking -- put a huge bookcase over the worst of the stinky registers, and made sure to close the vents.  so i removed book after book, starting out two at a time, then rapidly regressing to one.  circumstances of space dictated that i use the arm without the shoulder, so that's when the day's soundtrack first started getting a bit strange.


Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon the defenses

Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor
Grasp it, sense it - tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams
Purge all thoughts of the life you knew before
Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar
And you'll live as you've never lived before 

Softly, deftly music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it secretly poseess you
Open up you mind let your fantasies unwind 
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight 
The darkness of the music of the night

Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world
Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before
Let your soul take you where you long to be
Only then can you belong to me 

Floating, folding, sweet intoxication
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation 
let the dream begin let your darker side give in 
to the power of the music that I write
The power of the music of the night

You alone can make my song take flight
Help me make the music of the night

so i finally had all the shelves emptied that were within my reach... and even progressed a little farther with the aid of the handy-dandy ubiquitous grabbers stashed about.  maybe i added an hour to the task because i had forgotten that these were mostly fred's very fine small library of photography books.  by which i do not mean "picture books," though they certainly are full of pictures... but they're more like histories -- of magnum, and war journalism, studies of weegee and cartier-bresson. good stuff.  i barely noticed the smell of sammy's overheated piss.

fred buys all kinds of crap at places like the dollar store.  oh! no!  even more often, he picks up these 99 cent amazing cleansers and magical elixirs at a nearby thrift store, where we buy our best fiction.  i confess to have fallen into the nasty and off-putting habit of sighing and rolling my eyes when he presents his latest detergent-oriented finds.

i am gonna go ahead and just put this squarely on the pointy heads of MEN. if a product promises that all you need do to clean something like, say, a shower, is spray their usually blue stuff religiously onto the shower walls for 84 weeks -- no scrubbing required -- why, you'll have to sport wrap around ray-bans to avoid the glare of those pristine tiles!  never, ever, is scrubbing or exertion of any kind required.  that's why god made magic enzymes and proprietary formulas that you mix yourself in spray bottles.  WOMEN know better.  that's why we sigh and roll our eyes so much.

you're welcome.  glad i could clear that up for ya!

however, fred moved on to internet ads as his sanitary inspirations and one day recently a box of Fizzle, about which testimonials swore amazing results on anything foul resulting from any excretion from any part of your pets body -- arrived.  a plain paper box.  he mixed some up straight away and with the next liquidy sort of hair ball, promptly sprayed nearly an entire 3 x 5 foot area rug with the stuff.  never mind any precaution like carefully testing some unseen corner of a fabric before drowning it in chemicals not identified on the packaging...

and it worked.  he reveled in his cleaning superiority and i became used to seeing spray bottles of Fizzle placed strategically around Marlinspike Hall, as he used the bottles to "mark the spot," so that he could point out that the Fizzle bottle marked... nothing!  whatever offensive piece of pet organic material had been there, Fizzle had made it disappear.  some mornings, when i am still bleary, i get the sense that they're lined up like traffic cones and i am supposed to rev up the wheelchair and run some strange, timed x-treme Fizzle bottle obstacle course.

so after i hurt myself badly shoving the bookcase out of the way, and after prying up that nasty, nasty register, and after washing/scrubbing said nasty register, and sticking the vacuum nozzle as far down as i could cram it, sucking up i do not even wanna know what... i sprayed almost an entire bottle of Fizzle down the dark, deep hole.  i waited a bit and added a strong mixture of rubbing alcohol and water.  i topped off this cocktail with white vinegar that had been waved over vermouth.  alone and possibly reacting to the fumes, i emptied an entire can of lysol -- "crisp linen" -- into the register duct's gaping maw as well as over my head, on the piles of books, and in the general vicinity of everything.

i had, of course, turned off the heat.  i ain't stupid, and being a Fizzle convert and a longtime lysol adherent, i wanted to give these fine products hours and hours, if need be, to kill the last remnants of my darling russian blue's last gift to us.

you guessed it.  it got pretty cold and as i am perpetually doing the i'm freezing dance from my daily blessèd fevers, when fred came home, i used concern for *his* comfort as a cover, and cranked on the heat.  (you can add that to my gender lesson from above -- WOMEN do that kind of thing -- we get what we want by claiming our MEN really need it.)

and... no smell!

also, it turned out that the second register had not been baptized in sam-i-am's tainted waters -- rather the outside edge of another bookcase had been so brought to the lord.

i hate to say it, though i sure do say it a lot, it seems, but fred is oblivious -- and often -- to when i need help.  maybe it's a good thing, in certain situations, as it forces me to become inventive and to ask more of myself.  but in this case, i am pretty sure i broke another damn rib.

i moved the big bookcase we have been discussing back over the now unoffensive register, and then moved the table upon which i had piled all of these books.  the lovely photographic histories, and the three shelves of dean koontz and maeve binchy -- hardcovers, all.  not to mention what was normally on the damn table -- one buddha, many framed photos, including, ironically, one of the dead cat, and a pile of books that did not belong yet to any assigned bookshelf, as they were ones we were preparing to read.  one day soon.

i did it rapidly, hoping the pain would follow suit and quickly come and go. ha.

then i crammed the wheelchair between the shifted table and the offending smaller bookcase, because sammy, being sammy, had chosen its corner next to the wall upon which to piss.

i am sorry, stephen king.  my regrets, nevada barr.  my profound sympathies, as well, to shakespeare and ibsen.  and i cannot begin to apologize to my friend who actually published a novel, now sticky and diabetically-inclined to pure sweet stinkiness -- it was, i swear to you, still damp. i threw them all away.  it was the first time i'd ever tossed a book that *might* have been salvagable -- with the investment of days of labor and the likely result of still pungent pages, all oddly curled.

then, even as ensconced as i was, jammed, in fact, i could not reach the bookcase itself to clean it.
grabber to the rescue, again!  i took a handy-dandy kitchen towel, rinsed it in hot water and in a potent mixture of all the alchemy that had gone down the register's drain, and swatted and swiped until the smell was no more.

i am the queen of clean.

maybe now we will actually use the room as a library, its original designation.  well, after being our first dining room and then t.v./wii space.

the table remains where i left it, the books still piled upon it, and i have no intention of even trying to put things back in place.  my non-shoulder shoulder area is making grinding, squishing noises and my fever did a dance on top of what is usually its apex.

by then, my ears were picking up strains of mozart's don giovanni.  thank god, because i thought for sure i'd be stricken with the requiem.


Madamina, il catalogo è questo                                                                                                                                           
Delle belle che amò il padron mio;
un catalogo egli è che ho fatt'io;
Osservate, leggete con me.
In Italia seicento e quaranta;
In Almagna duecento e trentuna;
Cento in Francia, in Turchia novantuna;
Ma in Ispagna son già mille e tre.
V'han fra queste contadine,

Cameriere, cittadine,
V'han contesse, baronesse,
Marchesine, principesse.
E v'han donne d'ogni grado,
D'ogni forma, d'ogni età.
Nella bionda egli ha l'usanza
Di lodar la gentilezza,
Nella bruna la costanza,
Nella bianca la dolcezza.
Vuol d'inverno la grassotta,
Vuol d'estate la magrotta;
È la grande maestosa,
La piccina e ognor vezzosa.
Delle vecchie fa conquista
Pel piacer di porle in lista;
Sua passion predominante
È la giovin principiante.
Non si picca - se sia ricca,
Se sia brutta, se sia bella;
Purché porti la gonnella,
Voi sapete quel che fa.

My dear lady, this is a list

Of the beauties my master has loved,

A list which I have compiled.

Observe, read along with me.

In Italy, six hunddred and forty;

In Germany, two hundred and thirty-one;

A hundred in France; in Turkey, ninety-one;

In Spain already one thousand and three.

Among these are peasant girls,

Maidservants, city girls,

Countesses, baronesses,

Marchionesses, princesses,

Women of every rank,

Every shape, every age.

With blondes it is his habit

To praise their kindness;

In brunettes, their faithfulness;

In the very blond, their sweetness.

In winter he likes fat ones.

In summer he likes thin ones.

He calls the tall ones majestic.

The little ones are always charming.

He seduces the old ones

For the pleasure of adding to the list.

His greatest favourite

Is the young beginner.

It doesn't matter if she's rich,

Ugly or beautiful;

If she wears a petticoat,

You know what he does.

i had hoped the tale would wear me out, but her it is almost 4 am.

i do thank you very much, however, for allowing me this means of public distraction, which is great for ignoring pain, and public humiliation, which Abbot Truffatore always highly recommends as a general tonic for the soul.

talk at you later, dear reader.  hope along with me that some manor elves will put all the bookcases and books and tables back where they belong.  i believe!  i believe!

Memorial Repost: Nepeta Cataria [originally published 8.17.2010]

Retired educator, here. I'm in severe pain and managing to piece together a few consecutive hours of sleep could only help. To that end, I took a Lunesta last night, and almost enjoyed falling asleep. Looking back with fondness at those moments, when I woke 45 minutes later, I knew I was... screwed again! So it was another up-and-down night. Still, it was fun cavorting with the huge fuzzy-green lunar moth that flitted around my head, leaving trails of questionable, slightly oily, vapor.

When the felines convinced me it was time to get up this morning, I stretched out my arm, feeling for my glasses. You know, the $379 glasses that I just got last month? Guess who likes to steal spectacles? Yes, our little idiot, the Dobster. I took the bedroom apart – then expanded the search. By the time Fred got up, I had a headache (probably from having to wear an old pair of glasses) and a slight, ummm, attitude. He was immediately drafted for the cause and seemed very eager to help, as he stood there mumbling and scratching himself, inquiring as to the date and time.

So he’s crawling around and under things, armed with one of his best flashlights (one day, I will do 100 words on Fred and the flashlights). Butt in the air, crawling right behind him, sweet and chipper, was... Dobby. Were he not a cat, I would have sworn he was mocking us.

Please note that breakfast had not been served to the feline contingent. To that end, Sam-I-Am felt that he might inspire me by eating a few pages out of the John Grisham novel I’m reading. Chomp, rip! Chomp, rip!

For her part, Marmy peed on the sofa, and -- in the name of parity, I guess, on one of Fred’s pillows.  God forbid she should feel left out.

She did what she does best.

Very crafty, very crafty. My attention thus divided by these wily cats, I believe they used these moments of frenzied confusion to transfer the purloined glasses to a new location.

But then, that would sound paranoid, bordering on psychotic. So, of course, I did not see Marmy actually sporting them as she sauntered past me toward my office, her fluffy tail swirling eddies of air. (She handed them off to Dobby, who absentmindedly squirreled them away in an Izod eye case, as he sat talking on the phone to their Grand Kitty PoohBah, evidently the mastermind behind this heist.)

Cough. Ummm. Did *I* write that?

Did I mention that I took a sleeping pill? One, I think.

Sammy said, “Girl, would you get your opposable thumbs together, open those kibble containers, and serve up some breakfast? And, you know, Fred looks like he could use a stiff cup of coffee. C’mon! Move it, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” So I fed and watered everyone, ground some beans, washed a few dishes, and finally brewed a pot. “That’s better,” cooed Sam-I-Am, my beloved boy.

It’s hours later, now. They have me pinned in the bed. Dobby is draped over my left thigh, Marmy is nestled between my legs, and Sammy is curled up next to me, eyeing me over his paws. There’s no way out. I managed to snag my laptop. This is my only hope. Maybe someone out there will notify the authorities that there is a woman, poiseless and glasses-less, a pitiful physical specimen, a whiny gimp, being held hostage by one domestic long hair known for her “*ack*:*ack*” rap, one domestic short hair (whose head is alarmingly small in proportion to his body), and by one large male who is not a Russian Blue but believes that he really, really ought to be.

Fred seems to have left the premises. If, indeed, the world has gone as topsy-turvy as I suspect, he is finishing the mowing job he promised The Cistercians back when Spring was young, in advance of the resurrection.

{What am I, delusional?  Drugged?  Wait.  Oh, yeah!}

It is my belief that Fred has been successfully co opted by the cats. I heard snippets of a conversation between Fred and a cooing Marmy – something about fresh tuna, whole cream, and – sadly – a demand for more better nip, with fewer stems and more buds... God forbid that the cops stop him.

I wonder how much bail might be for possession of nepeta cataria.

Bianca Castafiore never has these kind of problems.

Nesting 1

I am having major surgery Monday, and the usual pre-op jitters have set in, full force.

In other news, my kidney function decided that *now* would be the ideal time to decline.  The great thing is that I've no symptoms, unless this Edema From Hell is related.  If Dr. ShoulderMan's SideKick had not called, I'd never have known... which would have been infinitely better, don't you think?

I predict a weekend of intense nesting activity.  Choose to stand still while in my general vicinity?  You risk being cleaned, rearranged, painted.  The middle of the night was meant for stirring, for building flavors, for sauces, for loving marinara.

When the pain is so bad that I cannot clean, cook, or repurpose irrational crockery, my domestic urges will find fulfillment in cat videos.  I wish that I'd had this little Flip camera while Sammy was alive, because nothing would touch my heart like visiting with him this weekend, fending off his weird amorous cat kisses... but the fluorishing Buddy the Kitten Collection will have to do.  Buddy is more Struggle and Scratch than Smooches and Mystery -- and maybe that's a good thing, at this stage of the game.

I had forgotten his herculean struggles with the blanket kept folded at the foot of the bed, a blanket which mocks him by not being where it clearly ought to be.  We still come upon him fiercely attempting the necessary relocation.

Truth be told, the pain is nearing the magic 10 on the 10 scale at this very moment, and Buddy happens to be snoozing with his head on the aforementioned blanket -- clearly, a sign that the first cat video of the weekend should be that May 2011 YouTube classic, Buddy the Kitten versus The Blanket.

I am going to try and finish a few drafts for the blog between nesting activities but I have promised as much twice already this week.  If I don't, please think good thoughts around 3 pm Monday, Tête de Hergé time, and I'll see you on the other side of anesthesia.

Wednesday's Catcam -- Full of Woe

Sammy and Dobby

UKBB a.k.a. Little Boy

Okay, so... in my continuing efforts to avoid serious thought, I present an update of The Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall.

It's a traumatized Remnant.  We lost the Heart, the Center, of the Group last July when we euthanized Sam-I-Am, whose kidneys failed and who was suddenly stricken with an apparently voracious cancer.  He was such a sweet, intelligent, loving, and hilarious cat.  I miss him everyday.  He was the only Manor resident to be able to read me like a book.

Sniff.

The next unexpected feline death took Uncle Kitty Big Balls from us, just about a month ago. 

A word about how the atmosphere has shifted requires a word about genetics.  UKBB and his sister Marmy Fluffy Butt were two gorgeous homeless cats that Fred began to feed about 3 years ago.  The best guess of our vet is that they were 6-8 months old and abandoned.
When we met them, Marmy was awfully, fearfully, hugely pregnant.  She is really a very tiny girl, a fact well-hidden by her voluminous coat.  Anyway, at the time, we only had Sammy, and I was okay taking one cat in... We decided on Marmy, despite her nearly feral nature and her clear preference for being left the hell alone, because she looked absolutely miserable and other lives depended upon hers being saved.  I tried hard to come to the decision of adopting them both -- but the thought of TWO wild cats and a litter of kittens -- plus Sammy -- overwhelmed me.  Plus, I always tend to believe that others out there are going to do the right thing.  "Surely someone will take him in."  Later, I bolstered my arguments with the notion that he could hardly be disease-free after that much time on the street, and did not want to expose the other animals.  Yeah, I played the public health angle.

She terrorized Sam-I-Am and strategically took over any area that he would have to cross in order to get to his food and his litter box.  Marmy is a real piece of work, quite unaware of how difficult she is to love. 

It turned out that she also lacks any maternal instinct whatsoever.

Fred basically served as her midwife, and had he not been around, Dobby, possibly the most compassionate smarty-panted cat in the universe, would not have survived his own birth.  Dobby was the runt of Marmy's litter of five kittens, and she decided she was done with the delivery process about half way through -- the bubble over her head clearly communicated "Wake me when they are all here -- I need a nap."

It was quite the sight,  Marmy nursing those kittens.  They irritated her to no end... They would, for example, just latch on for a nursing session when she would snarl, get up, and stalk off... dropping valiant kittens every few steps.  The tried to hang on;  She was intent on shaking them off.  I lived in terror of running over a blind, mewling, tiny rug rat with my wheelchair as she scattered them willynilly.  We took over, pretty much, hand-feeding them, keeping them clean, trying not to badmouth Marmy in front of her innocent babies.  Little pitchers have big ears and all that, you know.

Marmy's Litter

You'd think that producing such a great, healthy litter might transform her into a less beastly beast, but no, if anything, she got worse.  And now, poor Sammy was terrorized by the five kittens in addition to Her Fluffy ButtNess.  Sammy was a timid, gentle soul.

Dobby was clearly different, and not just in a runt kind of way.  He was clueless, fearless.  He loved Sammy from the get-go, and seemed to have decided Sammy was more his mother than that Long-Haired Menace we kept returning him to...

Fred promised me before we took Marmy in that he would place all the kittens by 9 weeks.  As the fourth month of their lives passed, I began to take a jaundiced view of Fred and his promises.  Finally, I suffered a nervous breakdown after the bazillionth discovery of kitten piss in my closet and the covers of whatever books I was reading serving as their chewy pacifiers.  "They must go," I cried, as Fred slipped the straightjacket over my head...

He can get me to do most anything, Fred can.  Part of that has to do with loving him and wanting to make him as happy as can be and part of that has to do with me being the most gullible person alive.
Without cracking a smile, he asked, "So which one are we going to keep?"

Although worried about his health and possible developmental problems, we chose Dobby.  Actually, that was also why we chose him, as during our interviews of folks who wanted a kitten, we never found a situation where we felt he'd get the extra nurturing he seemed to need.  (He was just... different.  For instance, instead of searching out Marmy's teats, he preferred to climb her.  It was his favorite activity -- crawling and climbing in the opposite direction of whatever food was being served.  He was *tiny*.  And, we though, although gregarious as heck, maybe a little stupid.  I mean, Sammy, trapped inside his fear of little, clambering things, would knock him into the next week, and Dobby'd come bouncing right back to him, obviously thrilled at having been noticed...)

So we ended up with antisocial, always pissed-off Marmy Fluffy Butt, the intimidated Sam-I-Am, and the always up for a thrill Dobby. 

Fred actually had to carry Sammy to his litter box because Marmy would attack him viciously if he dared to cross the imaginary plane of her territory.  We had to feed him in our bedroom, too.  This went on for at least several months.  It ended the day he pooped and peed in the bedroom and I suffered my second straight feline-induced psychotic break.  Restrained in the Happy Chair, I howled that Marmy's Reign of Terror had to end... and that no one was going to toilet inappropriately from that day forth.

During all this time, Fred kept an eye out for Marmy's brother, still homeless.  He continued to feed him and would sometimes sit out by the moat late at night, talking with him.  They clearly loved each other and I began to feel like the Big Bad Meanie.

The following year, the next April, I was doing my usual spring fling, hanging out in ICU on a respirator, following one of the seven surgeries on my shoulders -- I was beginning to not do so well post op, pulling stunts like coding and refusing to breathe.  I was getting better but still couldn't manage off of the vent, and was very tired.  Fred arrived to visit one evening and was clearly agitated.  I was able to communicate by writing, so I set out to find out what was wrong.  "There is something I have to tell you," he began, grimly.   Honest to God, it crossed my mind that maybe he wanted to turn off the respirator and cut off my nutrition... He must finally have had enough of me...
But the actual "conversation" that ensued boiled down to this:  Uncle Kitty Big Balls had turned up at the Manor in horrible shape, all skin and bones, covered in abscesses and unable to walk on one of his hind legs... and Fred wanted my permission to take him in, permanently.  His timing was impeccable and his performance, flawless.  I was so relieved that he didn't want to "humanely euthanize" ME, that I nodded vigorously and wrote a great big "Okay!" on my writing pad.

(He claimed later that he couldn't read the scrawled "please don't unplug the breathing machine...")

UKBB and I sort of went through a few rounds of rehab together.  He had his surgeries -- I had mine.  He ended up having part of a foot amputated and required complicated dressing changes for his multiple fight wounds.  And yes, he had HUGE kitty balls... but not for long.  Just long enough to earn the Uncle Kitty Big Balls sobriquet.  Mostly, we called him "Little Boy."

Just as his sister Marmy was obstinately feral, Little Boy hungered for affection and almost could not get enough of Fred.  He became Fred's shadow and remained his raspy-voiced confidante to the end.  Me, he liked enough, but seemed to know that I was the one that had cursed him with an extra year as a suffering stray.  He showed me affection when I doled out salmon, chicken, kibble, or catnip. Ours was a utilitarian relationship.  He liked to watch me with Sammy, and learned the ins-and-outs of life in Marlinspike Hall by copying Dobby, his precocious nephew.

I discovered the Magic Spray we add to their food to take the stink out of their litter box leavings thanks to UKBB, as he produced stinky poops that defied description.  Having been undernourished for so long, he dedicated his life -- beyond The Fredster -- to food.  His coat grew back in, thick and luxurious, and he developed a muscular but quite round belly.  He looked not unlike some burly underworld figure who might keep a stogy clamped between his teeth.

So now we had Marmy and her brother, as well as her kitten, Dobby -- and Sam-I-Am, who sometimes looked at us reprovingly, clearly not one of The Family:

Marmy, Dobby, UKBB:  Related?!

It was easy to love the three boys, each with an engaging personality, each craving affection.  Marmy remained an enigma.  Every few days, I had to trap her so as to be able to comb out her matted hair.  You would think I was trying to murder her.  The thought crossed my mind as she hissed and scratched her way through that bonding exercise.  As hard as I tried to introduce her to Grooming 101, she still produced several python-like hairballs a week -- more fun for me, as apparently I am the only human within a 10-mile radius who ever noticed them.

Sammy and Dobby were so tight, it was amazing!  Dobby brought out the kitten in my old guy, and he was often sighted flying through ballrooms and libraries, grinning and skidding around corners, Dobby hot on his heels.  It was a happy time for the two of them and who knew that Feline Hide-'N-Seek had so many rules?  Still, Sammy saved his best for me, and got me through many a long afternoon or night.  He was a large-boned cat but stepped so delicately around my feet and legs that he never hurt me... except when he absolutely had to -- you know, like when it is 5:05 AM and breakfast has not been served.

Dobby turned out to be an angel and we take complete credit for every one of his amazing attributes.  A frequent refrain around here is any variation of Dobby is so wonderful because he's never known anyone but us, never known anything but love...  (I know, I know -- Saccharine Gag!)  He is a mediator and protector, and has a huge heart full of concern for the welfare of others, species be damned.  He can figure his way through, out, or into any physical obstacle.  He opens doors, he turns light switches on and off. He fetches and "sits" on command.  He comes when he's called and if you don't understand what he wants, he will tap the item and then you, in turn.

When Sammy lost his appetite at the end and I was ridiculously frenetic about getting nourishment into his dying body, there were a few occasions when Dobby carefully walked him to the kitchen in the middle of the night, and reminded him how to eat and drink.  It broke my heart.  Sammy would do his best for Dobby.  Yes, I am weeping.  I miss him and loved him that much.  Most days, I would gladly swap human companionship for a chance to be with Sam again.  Let's put it this way, Friends -- I probably kissed that cat more times than I've planted one on my Darling Fred.

After Sammy's death, Dobby went into a depression that he hasn't quite gotten out of yet.  He still strolls the grounds late at night, calling his friend.  He still sometimes has a thought of him and runs to me with questions in his eyes.

UKBB, Little Boy, suddenly went into ketoacidosis.  We had noticed that he was drinking a lot, and decided that we were going to make an appointment with the vet.  He became deathly ill the very weekend we made that decision.  It struck him quickly and we did the best we could for him, got him the best of care, but too late.  We have that guilt and can't get rid of it.  Fred is heartbroken.

A phrase that is antithetical to my nature keeps occurring to me, though, regarding UKBB, and Fred does seem to understand it.  Because of Fred, Uncle Kitty Big Balls had his thirty minutes of wonderful.  Because of him, he knew warmth and care, healing and fun, love and friendship.

You may accuse me of anthropomorphism all the live-long day, I don't care.  To quote Paul Simon, and why wouldn't I?  -- I know what I know.

The day after UKBB died at the emergency vet ICU, I had my first ketamine treatment.  I know now that I wasn't anywhere near as "high" as it seemed then, but I was definitely disinhibited by the experience.  We found ourselves admitting that the hole left by Little Boy's death was too much, and that we each had already entertained the notion of adopting a kitten.  This flies in the face of what's "right" to do, of course.  So we did it -- that being how we came to have Buddy the Kitten.

It's not fair to give an animal (or a child) a "job" to do in exchange for their admission to the fellowship of family... but we have done that, I confess.

Buddy is responsible for comedic relief, for offering his soft kitten fur to absorb our tears, and for cheering the desolate Dobby and the sad Marmy Fluffy Butt.

A word about Marmy.

You'd not know she is the same cat that was so wild and totally insane for... what?  Almost 3 years. She was changed by Sammy's death.  That very same evening, she came straight to me, climbed into my lap, and... stayed.  She chirps instead of meowing, and her inflected bird calls were a strange comfort.  She clearly had years worth of things to say.

For the longest time, she literally attached herself to me, to the point where I almost longed to be catless.  Whatever happened in her self-centered little soul that day has lasted... Well, until we brought Buddy the Kitten home.

We figure he brought back her nightmare of giving birth and being constantly accosted by needy sucking mouths that demanded she put herself last. "I ain't doing this again," read the cartoon bubble over her head.

Below are four (4) cat videos.  Surprise!  You being as smart as you are, they are self-explanatory -- except for the long one, the third one. 

Yes, it makes me laugh out loud!  I went into my tiny "office" in search of a book, and was followed by none other than the aforementioned kitten.  As I turned to leave, I noted several things:

-- Buddy the Kitten was cowering in the corner under a stool, between two bookcases;  and
-- Marmy was sprawled on the rug in the small hallway outside my office, clearly pleased with herself for having trapped the hapless baby while appearing to be all innocence and light to the Dumb Human.

This little scene is repeated over and over all day.  She (innocently) blocks his path, and gets extremely pleased with herself for doing so.  He slinks into a corner, shaking with fear (for she has introduced him to her claws). 

And then, TA DA!  Dobby will arrive and help defuse the tension, often either running Marmy off in a game of chase, or simply escorting the frightened kitten out of the area (and back to me).  It is a HOOT.  He's like a United Nations' Peacekeeper, but more effective.

The other vids are just... stuff.  The day the kitten dedicated to learning how to leap.  Dobby's continual patronage.  Marmy strolling by, exuding oppression.  The usual stuff.

I know cat vids are boring and cat stories more so... but that's about all I can do today.  I have a doctor's appointment to talk about more pain-killing measures and frankly, I keep breaking down and don't really want to go.  The Pity Party will end, I promise.  I'm thinking... tomorrow?

Sunday CatCam

I thought I'd see what the "magic movie" feature on the Flip camera turned out -- and it's fine, I suppose.  It's also kind of hard to screw up video of a bunch o'cats.  (It *did* botch the list of credits, but -- again -- it's a matter of crediting a bunch o'cats, so no big whoop.) 

The song is "Love Will Guide You Home" by Deadman.

Anyway, at least there are shots of the recently departed Uncle Kitty Big Balls, and even a few of the Reclusive Marmy Fluffy Butt.  Dobby, Our Little Idiot, is, of course, everywhere, and there's plenty of footage of our newest inmate, Buddy the Kitten.  Despite "Buddy" being his official moniker, I cannot seem to stop calling him "Numbnut." I am also calling Dobby "Sammy," and anyone who will listen is liable to hear "Little Boy."

You there!  Feline! 

[I know it's not fair to compare but I surely do miss Sammy.  Now *that* was a mighty fine cat.]

Even though the music ended up overlain so as to drown out the inevitable squeaks and moans that I seem to always add to a soundtrack, it was actually playing while Buddy the Kitten was lullabied to sleep. He seems to like Brett Dennen's voice, find it relaxing. Me, too.


I just didn't want you to hurt yourself trying to figure out some significance to this music being paired with pictures of a kitten snoozing.

missing sammy

the dobster and sam-i-am, champion sleepers, best buds, dedicated pranksters

The one where reality lives up to expectations...

A short post, and an odd one, but I need to do it.

(Is it terrible to be terrible?)

(Yes.)

Following Sammy's death, an internet troll decided to separate me from the herd, decided to be lioness to my nervous, flighty, incompetent gazelle.

We both visit a certain website dedicated to... well, a fetish. Not a fetish that would cause you to gasp or make milk go up your nose, no... more of a common fixation turned art project, if you will.

A minor, not major, fetish.

And that's minor as in "inferior in importance," not "underage child."

Why, look! I am sweating bullets.

As always happens on sites dedicated to x, y, or a minor fetish, an actual community has evolved midst the serious virtual business of reviewing videos and talking shop. It's not a warm and fuzzy nuclear family; No, it's more of a dysfunctional and fuzzy one.

Holiday gatherings are just a scream.

The gentleman who runs the site established the usual area in the back (behind the stacks of cardboard boxes and piles of mostly empty paint cans and ancient twined-together newspapers), where regulars and irregulars, alike, can vent about almost anything. And so we do.

And so I did. I began a thread about Sam-I-Am and as time passed and he became so ill, I revived the thread to share the sad news of his final illness. It helped, in a small way, because as diverse a crowd as it is over there, people are dependable. Folks love their pets, and such simple commonalities transcend politics and all our other contrived differences.

(Are you still with me?)

The pointy-nosed skank of a troll just couldn't stand it.

She suggested that I donate Sam-I-Am's body to a vet school, ridiculed my grief for a pet, and asserted her image of me as a dried up old lady prune presiding over dreary afternoon salons.

To her friendly comments, she attached, for my viewing pleasure, a video of a feline necropsy.

Truth be told, my only response was a fairly clean-burning anger and a clarified vision of what she must be like. I have managed to hold that anger in check while "in public." In private, I have longed for a few minutes alone with her, a meeting that she would not leave unscathed. (Okay, so maybe she could beat me to a pulp with just the tip of her long, forked, wicked tongue... On the other hand, I have no compunction about running over her flabby ass with my wheelchair.)

In high school, I dissected a cat, and while I wish there had been a fetal pig option, at least I cannot be shocked by the sight.

I said something terminally witty, something along the lines of how she needed psychiatric help. So original! So scathing! (And yet, so true...)

Then I decided the SheTroll could serve as helpful antidote to the poison of our loss. When my sorrow reaches the Point of Emotional Silliness, I only have to imagine her fetid breath, her previously-referenced flabby ass, and her sociopathy to bring me back to Sufficiently Grounded Reality.

Then, too, I thought to employ some of the maturity and smarts people keep insisting I have on hand, and try to let it go. (No, not "let go and let God..." -- just "let it the hell go...")

It turns out, of course, that people, especially fetishists, are just lovely. Yes, you are right -- I've been tackled by that punchline before and doubtless will again.

When I checked my box at the hoodoo voodoo site yesterday, I was heartened and touched by the expressions of juju sympathy over Sammy's death from the gathered brethren and sistren.

There was universal disdain for the necropsy-nattering troll, and I felt much better about things.
Not about Sammy, about *things*. Fred and I both burst into unexpected tears, mostly as we witness the grief of the remaining cats -- and no, it is not our anthropomorphism in play. All three are greatly altered in their behavior and are clearly bringing forth their curiosity, sadness, and confusion.

Anyway, as to the reason I am writing, and you are reading... THIS? I just opened another bit of mail over at this site, from a member I don't know well, but who has always been very nice, and often funny. She enclosed a link to a 2008 news article published in the UK's Independent, saying that she just wanted to share in the great gulping laughter she experienced when she initially discovered the article -- which features none other than our own beloved troll.

Troll extols herself as an academic, perhaps a researcher, touts having "worked with" Margaret Mead and other tossable names -- most recently, while analyzing moi-même, she pronounced herself a therapist. She's a swirling dervish of an expert in everything.

(Funny, in what proved to be a not-far-off impulse, it went through my mind that she was more likely a Dominatrix for Droopy-Diapered Adult Babies... that seemed both more her speed, and definitely more her crowd.)

It turns out she's a Phone-Sex Operator*, recasting herself as Scheherazade.

Oh, my heart is light, my laugh is gay, and Sammy, somewhere, is chirping himself into a good, long purr.

THE TROLL, PICTURED ABOVE, DESCRIBES HERSELF:
I'm 60 years old, have a BA in cultural anthropology from Columbia University, and I've been married for 25 years. I have a son in his last year of college who lives at home. He's a double major in English Literature and Religion. Men call me for an infinity of reasons – but mostly for what I call 'Executive Stress Relief'. It's not sex; it's a cocktail of testosterone, fuelled by addiction to pornography, loneliness, and the need to hear a woman's voice. I make twice the money I made in the corporate world. I work from home, the money transfers into my bank account daily. I'm Scheherazade: if I don't tell stories that fascinate the Pasha, he will kill me in the morning.

From the news article's introduction by Catherine Townsend:
When I see the late-night ads for premium-rate phone sex lines featuring nubile, tanned young women, I get curious about who is actually on the other end of the phone. Like many people, I sometimes imagine that she's a bored housewife, moaning and calling herself a "naughty girl" while smoking a fag and doing the ironing.

But whether they are working in a packed call centre wearing headsets or from home wearing lingerie, phone-sex operators (or PSOs) are as diverse as the callers. I can definitely see the appeal of wanting to make money from talking dirty, like the Americans pictured here in Phillip Toledano's compelling portraits. But these women (and men, some very successful PSOs have been boys with high-pitched voices!) have to do so much more: they have to morph into a role that is part therapist, part sexual surrogate. They also have to improvise and create multiple personae in order to play the submissive secretary, the naughty nurse, the adult baby, the porn star or the barely legal teen girl.

Our Vaunted Troll was also noticed by some of her fellow Columbia alums, over at the Columbia Bwog (the 24/7 blog incarnation of The Blue and White, Columbia University’s monthly undergraduate magazine). In the comment section after the blog entry entitled, "You, too, could be a phone sex operator," a few salient points were raised, as in: Is there even a major available at Columbia in cultural anthropology? Given the Vaunted Troll's age, might not her Columbia have been GS or Barnard? (I'm sure Barnard collegians everywhere are delighted by the suggestion.)

The most repeated comment, though, was a request for "eye bleach, stat!"


* Some of my best friends are Phone Sex Operators.
** Unfortunately, just a few weeks after this post was written, I had to leave PTZ for good... driven off, not by a skanky PSO, but by something even worse, a skanky moralist -- a woman prone to fits of pique and fixated on "hating" me (her verb choice -- and we honor her verbal decisions because she is a... writer. Mwa ha ha! Snort!). 

The photography that accompanies the article is exceptional, and was published in book form by the artist, Phillip Toledano, in 2009.

Sammy

We're going to miss our Sammy Boy, an excellent cat and superb friend. Dobby, his little idiot companion, is quite lost but will find his way.

The Long and the Short of It

Wow. What a difference a day makes!

Isner is out, losing in a fast, straight-sets match to Thiemo de Bakker, during which the American had no aces -- versus the 113 aces served to Mahut on Tuesday... Wednesday... and Thursday.

Today's match, over in 94 minutes, was the shortest men's match thus far in the 2010 Wimbledon tourney.

I'm surprised he was able to move at all.

For my daily whine: why, oh why, must Clijsters be paired against Henin?



Noteworthy: Mauresmo, very happy, it seems, in her retirement, is coaching Michael Llodra... who lost a close 4 set match to Roddick on Wednesday. Now she can chill and have a little beaujolais on some veranda somewhere.

Funny -- after her win at Antwerp, where someone awarded her a nice bottle, she said, "Tout le monde va penser que je suis alcoolique"!

I haven't been very forthcoming about my picks for this year... I am, to be honest, pretty sick, as well as emotionally drained by nursing Sam-I-Am. He will only rarely take food, and then only small bites from my hand. It is uncomfortable for him to lower his head to a bowl -- so my hands are met in offering every half hour -- a dish of water, a plate with small palatable morsels, treats of all kinds. I will spare you the play-by-play, as it is quite simple: He is a dying cat, much loved and well-cared for, and loving and caring, generously, in his turn. We hope he will turn the corner and live months, maybe years longer, but it does not look likely.

Anyway, I will go with my sentimental favorites -- why not? So that'd be Roddick and Henin. I apologize, in advance, to them -- as I have an extensive history as a Sport's Jinx.

the oasis

Dobby is clearly a gift, on loan to us.

He is the runt of Marmy Fluffy Butt's litter and from the beginning proved to be one of those special animals that comes along once in the lifetime of a blue moon.

Sam-I-Am continues to decline, steadily but slowly. I am moved by his decision to stay close to me, even though, clearly, there will be times I am going to wish he would glom onto someone else.

(More specifically... I hope he will decide to get off of my legs. Soon.)

But for now, it is a distinct honor. Much of my time is spent trying to get him to eat and drink.

I got up at 4 am and snagged an apple, kind of upset at how Sammy looked -- his eyes were very dull and he was exceedingly sluggish. The toxins normally cleared from his system by the kidneys and his liver are clearly taking over...

It suddenly seemed crucial that he drink some water -- just as, a few hours earlier, I staked the fate of the world on whether or not he would swallow my offering of a fragrant spoon of Super Supper. The Earth remains on its axis precisely because Sam-I-Am settled for a mouthful of plain yogurt.

Enter Dobby.

He surveys the situation, notes my near hysteria and Sammy's clear reluctance to imbibe...

And then begins a game of "Monkey see, Monkey do" that leaves me laughing, and Sammy, at least temporarily, hydrated.

Side by side at the bowls, they alternate between tapping their paws on the liquid surface and daintily lapping up the water.

I eat an apple.

Dobby pauses to give me a conspiratorial grin, then turns to lick Sammy gently on the head.

Maybe we can all grab a few more minutes of sleep.

Warscapes

It's been kind of a surreal day, and that's saying a lot.

Ferrying Sam-I-Am back and forth to the vet these past few days has been emotionally draining, as well as annoying, I'm sure, for Fred.

He refuses to put Sammy in a pet carrier, and holds him in his lap -- in the car, in the waiting room. (My suggestions that other pet owners might not be so thrilled with his choice evokes only the blankest of looks.)

While they were waiting for the vet today, Fred kept dozing off... and just when he'd reach the point of a real snooze, Sammy would promptly chirp at him.

"He would give me a look that said, 'Hey, can't you stay awake with me here? C'mon, my
human!'"

Sammy's chirps are legendary -- when he really needs you, he pulls it out of his bag o'tricks. Two tones, loud, and always accompanied by guilt-inducing looks.

Big eyes, the whole spiel. He's a wise guy.

[Sometimes he throws an elbow, if the chirp-und-glare routine falls flat.]

We left him at the vet, as we were having no luck getting him to eat. I was fast becoming his least favorite entity by coming at him with a syringe filled with water every half hour. Even so, he had not been able to swallow more than a few millilitres.

An x-ray showed that his liver was inexplicably small, while his spleen was inexplicably large.
His gastrointestinal tract, thanks to our insane twice daily doses of anti-furball elixir, was completely and totally empty -- no food, no masses, no kinks. An ultrasound showed some kidney damage (that's the extent of the explanation we received on the phone), and lab tests pointed to a possible kidney infection, as well. No imaging study, though, points to any obvious cancers, which is what we feared when the vet announced his excess spleen (you and I know he is channeling Baudelaire...).

All in all, not Sammy's day.

So it was very kind of the vet to call us late tonight with the news that the grey ghost was eating non-stop. The theory is that he felt renewed after getting lots of subq fluids. The vet estimates he'll be there a few days more, at least.

Considering we feared losing him this morning, we receive this news with great happiness this evening.

Unless I'm in an alternate universe?

I just glanced at the New York Times' headlines:

U.S. Identifies Vast Riches of Minerals in Afghanistan

The United States has discovered nearly $1 trillion in untapped mineral deposits in Afghanistan, far beyond any previously known reserves and enough to fundamentally alter the Afghan economy and perhaps the Afghan war itself, according to senior American government officials.

Anyone else get hit with the prescient heebie-jeebie shivers?

Sammy, in Dobby's Embrace

Sam-I-Am, longtime feline friend, is very sick.

Life in The Manor is muted: The articulate, momentarily, lost...

And so, to stand in the gap, your prayers and thoughts are beseeched, and appreciated.

Sammy, in Dobby's embrace

Update, 15 June 2010: Sam-I-Am remains in the animal hospital, but may be released tomorrow. The good news is that he seems better, generally, and is eating. The bad news is that his kidney failure is pretty profound, and that he [likely] has lymphoma. We will be doing home infusions to keep his system as clean of toxins as possible, and him as comfortable as can be. We were told he was not a good candidate for chemotherapy. The vets have gone to great pains to stifle all irresponsible hope on our part, so we plan on showing Sammy a good time and lots of love until his quality of life dictates that we make the hard decision.

Update, 24 June 2010: Sammy came home a week ago, and it really is touch and go. Yesterday, for example, I got him to eat about half a normal amount of food. Today, he declined to eat or drink, until about 10 pm, and then only licked a bit of food off of my fingers. Sometimes all he will eat are "dental treats" -- by Greenie. His throat apparently hurts, as he clearly wants water and food but usually ends up staring at it (and then glaring at me, as if I engineered this situation). Dobby remains on his wings, getting in the way of everything and generally being a great comfort. Marmy Fluffy Butt and Uncle Kitty Big Balls are, above all, perplexed -- but also enjoy glaring at moi, as they are not being entertained in the manner to which they are accustomed. Well, harrumph! I don't know how long Sam-I-Am can live like this. He's being a very brave boy. We will continue to try and meet all his needs, and then some...

None the Worse for Wear

The felines strike again, and that always leaves me feeling better, usually for having laughed and laughed and laughed. They're a bunch of nutters.

I am in a Period of Inertia. Not unrelated, but not exactly coincidental, either, is the fact that I am spiking fevers over the 101 mark, and doing that daily. It is, to put it mildly, depressing. As of the first of October, I'll cease to have health insurance coverage. There are several important things that need doing before this happens, and I've not done any of them.

As usual, when I am too self-involved, the antics of our pets manage to both help pass the miserable time spent shivering and lost in febrile headaches, as well as to simply keep me amused and somewhat distracted.

Of what significance, then, this gnawing in the pit of my stomach, this trembling of my hands?

[One very good thing of late? The pain I am in has nearly normalized -- I am back to what is a baseline state of being, and am oh-so-grateful.]

We're gifted with four cats: Sam-I-Am, Marmy (a.k.a. Fluffy Butt), Dobby, and Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy).

Sammy is the Elder Statesman -- which would be news to him, of course. He is a sensitive soul, which is to say, neurotic -- and needy. Marmy and Uncle Kitty Big Balls are siblings. They were both Street Urchins who began dropping by The Manor for the odd meal and a round of petting. Fred, playing on Sam's need for company and on Marmy's very pregnant condition, lobbied for Marmy's adoption, and won. She was essentially a feral cat that put up with us. Her five kittens were as foreign to her as Moon Rocks. We feared for their little lives those first few days -- they would latch on to her and begin nursing, which would trigger a fit of pique in Marmy, and the next thing you knew, she would take off... leaving blind and bald kittens scattered throughout Our Wing of Marlinspike Hall. I nearly flattened a few with my wheelchair. Anyway, we managed to socialize her but it took a tremendous amount of time -- and the trust we earned risks destruction everytime her routine world is rocked. She has a vet visit scheduled in a few weeks and we dread the impact of that on her -- the vet does not figure among her Facebook Friends.

Dobby, Our Little Idiot, was the runt of Marmy's litter. After the birth of the first four, Marmy lost interest in her last delivery -- Fred served as obstetrician. We were sure that Dobby would either not survive at all, or would be terribly damaged. He barely nursed -- indeed, that whole operation seemed to go right over his little bald and blind head. He showed a strange interest in climbing -- no matter where he was, he seemed determined to hike to the highest available altitude. He was roughly two days behind the others in all the developmental landmarks and could often be found struggling to emerge from beneath a fuzzy pile made up of all his siblings. (That might have fed the desire to constantly climb...)

Once it was apparent that he was going to live, he quickly became our favorite due to his courageous Little Spirit. He would be the first to attack My Red Angora Leg Warmers (I'll give you a moment to visualize), the first to leap from the strange heights of The Gigantic Bed to the antique Persian carpets below, and the first to respond to any cries of distress. Because he has remained such an intelligent, small, and social creature, very dedicated to The Common Good, we named him after the House Elf in the Harry Potter series.

And so, there were three. This suited me just fine, although Marmy could be irksome, and keeping her lucious long hairs off of The Captain's finery was a never-ending task.

Marmy's brother remained a stray and we saw him in fits and starts. His health began to go downhill and Fred suffered pangs of guilt for not having taken him in at the same time we adopted his sister, Miss Fluffy Butt. He suffered bouts of mange, then obvious injuries from fighting. Just before going into the hospital in April, I saw him hanging out by The Moat, and realized that he was limping badly. That hospitalization was difficult, and included time in ICU, on a ventilator.

As I lay there, struggling to breathe, Fred came to my side, looking grave and troubled. I couldn't talk to him, but recall thinking I would do most anything to take that worried look from his face. He said, "There is something important I need to talk to you about..." and thoughts of oh-my-God-he-wants-to-turn-off-the-machines-and-let-me-die went through my head, closely followed by fears of Marlinspike Hall having burnt to the ground.

"Uncle Kitty Big Balls came by this afternoon and was looking horrible. I can't stand it anymore; I want to adopt him. If we don't, he is going to die."

Yes, it took me a minute to switch gears. And then I was so profoundly glad that he wasn't planning to euthanize me and that our current home remained standing, that I mouthed and nodded "yes, yes, yes..."

$3,000 later, Uncle Kitty Big Balls was on the road to recovery. He, like me, had a bad case of osteomyelitis and required amputation of a toe, and removal of some infected bone. The famed Big Balls were gone, too, as were the three or four terrible abscesses from his various street fights. (He has an awesome record, his preferred style being a rustic, yet oddly elegant vale tudo.)

His fur was almost completely shaved off, and he was emaciated.

Unbelievably, though, he suffered from none of the terrible illnesses I'd expected -- no feline leukemia, no feline AIDS, no kidney diseases. And week by week, then day by day, he healed.

The cat follows Fred around as if he were some sort of Feline Deity, which I guess he is, from UKBB's point of view!

Whew. So that's the gang. Sometimes I feel for Sammy -- he's up against a family dynasty... But then I watch him enjoy the comaraderie and fun, and so long as we provide him with one-on-one attention, he really benefits from the company. I mean, just look at this picture -- evidence of the Benefits of Dobby -- Nuggler Par Excellence:

Oh, My God. I put a caption on a photo of my cats. I am Cat Woman. Oh. My. God.

Anyway.

I'm pretty much blind without my glasses. Yes, that's right -- go, ahead, picture it -- glasses, purple legs, and a Pressure Sore, Alma de Cuba of the Ischium. Dress that image up with My Red Angora Leg Warmers. Lucky Fred, eh?

Dobby gets bored easily. Because he's such a sweet-natured creature (We figure because he has only ever known us, and we are such good influences -- imagine if we had human progeny, what delights they might be!) -- because he's such a sweet-natured creature, Dobby is clueless sometimes about right and wrong.

He has boundary issues.

Of course, he's also a cat.

He delights in stealing things. It's comical -- he's so tiny and yet will grip whatever booty he's absconded with in his mouth, and fly like the wind through Our Wing of The Manor, eyes bugging out of his little pin head.

We excuse every lapse in etiquette on The Dobster's part by reminding ourselves that he's got a really tiny little head.

He makes off with pens, tweezers, combs (a real favorite), MP3 players, thermometers, and small paring knives (*once*). His larger conquests include my grabber, which he perceived as a mortal enemy when a kitten, Fred's Crox, and just yesterday, the hefty 2010 IKEA catalogue.

He occasionally steals my eyeglasses.

If that were all, it'd be fine. The thing is, once the theft goes down, Dobby loses interest and his fastidious and freaky mother takes over.

Did I mention that without the aid of glasses, I am essentially blind?

So, this morning, when Marmy got the glasses in the hand-off, I glared and yelled in her general direction. Fairly leaping from bed to wheelchair, I sped off in that same general direction, colliding with two walls and one door frame on the way.

Upon arrival at said general location, I realized that I was chasing... a lambswool duster that La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore had left propped in the corner of The Hallway To Our Rustic Kitchen.

Behind me, I heard the taletell sound of an amused *ack*-*ack*-*ack*. Slowly I turned...

and saw the rapidly receding end of Ms. Fluffy Butt, my glasses astride her fluffy fat head.

And so begins another day, here at Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé. If Marmy is true to form, she'll eventually return my spectacles by dropping them in the communal water dish, none the worse for wear.

Though temporarily blind, I am blessed. All that remains is to realize it.