An Anniversary Repost: Little Green Apples

I'm having trouble using my hands today... and then there's this pesky newly broken ankle.  O, Woe and Alas, and Poobah!  So I wondered what I was writing about on May 6, 2009.  Yes, that's right, an anniversary repost.  It's bittersweet, as it turns out, being a memory of one our now lost pets, the one, the only Uncle Kitty Big Balls, shortened to an affectionate "Little Boy." Fred loved him so... he was totally Fred's best buddy.  Me, I was good for putting out the kibble and for a good scratch and grooming session -- but for pure love, Fred and Little Boy, all the way.  There are other things to commemorate on May 6th, so happy birthday to those things, too.  Really. I mean it.  Sorry.  Did you ever notice that bitterness leaks?

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 The one day we had open for this week -- Thursday -- has now been filled with yet another visit to the Infectious Disease office, as they want a higher vancomycin trough level. We went by yesterday to pick up the antibiotics-in-a-ball to learn that we are going to dosing every 12 hours.

Today I see Bob for my first post-op visit; The Fredster has dinner with the Existentialists; and we proceed with... The Taming of Uncle Kitty Big Nuts, our newly rescued cat!

Yes... last Wednesday, as I lay dying in ICU, Fred delivered quite the performance.

The male cat, formerly known as Little Boy, is brother to the last cat we rescued, Little Girl, now officially known as Marmy. We took her in off the mean streets of Tête de Hergé so pregnant that she was sway-backed; Her humongous belly almost touched the floor; She waddled around, miserable, swishing her swishy tail. Of her five kitten litter, we kept the runt, known to us as Dobby. Dobby is our little idiot.

Sam-I-Am, the elder spokesman for the group, was born in a Walmart -- hence we named him for what's-his-face... Sam Walton, with a deeper, more appreciative nod to Dr. Seuss. Known to his friends as Stinky Boy, Sammy's life is filled with neuroses. I love him bunches. What can I say? He likes to kiss me.

When I was little, I wanted to be a vet and had a fairly active veterinary hospital that specialized, it seemed, in rehabilitating birds. My grandfather and a neighbor of his down the curvaceous country lane kept me supplied with injured blue jays and carrier pigeons. I raised a blue jay that had been tossed from the nest by one of *those* types of mothers -- he was a small ball of wrinkled skin with a huge gaping mouth and wirey neck -- eyes closed. I fed him purée of bugs with vitamins. I taught him to fly. Neither of us thought much about the details of first flight -- he fluttered, dipping and rising, his path almost plotted out by slow, huge dashes in the air -- "landing" with a complaining screech amid the branches of the crabapple tree next to Granddaddy's back porch. We had no exit strategy, and he almost spent the night in that crab apple tree. Usually, Squawky flew about the neighborhood during the day, coming into the house just a few times, and usually to hide his catches of bugs under the cushions of my grandmother's old-timey loveseat. She hated that bird. At night, Squawky came inside. He was killed by a hawk the next summer -- having lived only a little over a year.

Fred had me in tears as he pitched the notion of adopting Marmy's brother, "the sweetest cat in the world." I felt like the big bad meanie -- not wanting him near the others if he had anything infectious, not wanting to have to clean up after another long-hair.

Still, I made it out of ICU and meant to keep my promise. Little Boy, or Uncle Kitty Big Nuts, was delivered to our vet for a complete overhaul on Monday -- he had a large leg wound that they cleaned and packed with a drain, large nuts that they snipped, ear mites that they smote, plus worming, flea treatment, and a very punk whole body shave, as his long white and grey fur was matted beyond hope of repair by brush or comb. All his shots, too.

Amazingly, Uncle Kitty of the Former Big Nuts is disease-free. I just knew that The Fredster would come home Monday night sobbing, because the little guy just looked so very rough and haggard, limping and way skinny.

Yesterday, we set out to see The Boutiqueur, so punchy already that we sat giggling in the waiting room, sipping gourmet coffee. I had a fever and couldn't breathe. Saw Boutiqueur and got my first and best piece of practical advice. Should my lungs shut down again, and if I am alone, COUGH. Cough as hard as I can. The thing is, my brain seemed to be the first thing to stop working!

Anyway, we got lost in the parking deck, and by the time we found Ruby and loaded me -- they wanted $5 for the privilege of spending an hour and two minutes in the doctor's building.

Then we got lost on the highway, then we were found, and proceeded to the damned Infectious Disease group o'peeps. After that? Speed-demon Fred floored it across town to the vet's office, where we picked up a cross-eyed and bewildered Little Boy.

He is ravenous and has gulped down three cans of food. His sister and the rest of the feline crowd huddle outside the bedroom door -- Sammy is growling, Marmy is "ack-ack-acking" away and seems very happy, and Our Little Idiot, Dobby, is the most affected, surprisingly.

We are planning a family reunion and low key meet-and-greet for this afternoon, before we haul ass to see even more white coats.

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.

Wednesday CatCam: Buddy's Growing, Marmy Mourns, and Dobby Does What Dobby Does

i have failed to mention the enactment of a new law here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle:  please watch these precious, precious (oh, shut up!) cat videos with the sound OFF, or, failing that, promise to never, ever mention the juvenile anthropomorphic mindless nattering that tends to serve as a soundtrack.  also... never, ever speak of, describe, or reproduce the ersatz porky sausage links attached to the beefy ends of what may or may not be human arms. that's a foreshortening distortion that is, well, frightening. 

okay? okay!

sign here:  _________________________
name of first-born child OR VIN number of your red sports car:  __________________________
VISA card number and 3-digit security code:  ___________________________

The Feline Remnant continues to show signs of sadness and trauma.   We've yet to see both Marmy Fluffy Butt and Dobby the Wonder Runt behaving normally on the same day.  

And yes, Marmy continues to want to murder the kitten, making at least one violent pass at the Fluff Puff per day.  Of course, given that the Fluff Puff lives on, her dedication to his assassination is suspect.

Dobby functions perfectly, of course, in his role as Big Brother -- he willingly models the behavior we are wanting to see in Buddy, and has yet to show any aggression, fatigue, or boredom in his dealings.  Of course, what he says in private might be a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

Marmy has taken to lying on the scrap of rug that her brother, Dobby's Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy), occupied in his last days.  Dobby has even taken to curling up there some mornings.  They are both putting on weight, a function of stealing kitten kibble.

Dobby, and this truly touches my heart, still calls for Sammy at night, and then will come to me with i-don't-understand written all over his wizened old young face.  That's when a distracting belly rub comes in handy!

This last video, and you have probably figured out that I am bored this evening... This last video is going to serve as a reminder to The Dobster of Those Few Days When He Was Larger Than Buddy. 

UKBB: Ketoacidosis Kitty

Part of the reason I've been so feline-focused lately is that we're worried about Uncle Kitty Big Balls.  The proverbial doodoo hit the fan last night and he is now safely ensconced at the vet's office, but is, in her words, "critical."

We were suspicious that he was developing diabetes -- something we've experienced before in a cat, and something that I deal with daily.

We're oh-so-informed, you know.

Every few days I would share what I had noticed with Fred, and he would do the same.  Somehow, though, we had a communication breakdown this week -- it could have been all the medical running-around we were doing on my behalf, also the building consensus that whatever else needed doing could just wait until stuff (see previous post on schtuff) settled into the semblance of a routine.

I didn't tell him about the couple of sweet-smelling urine offerings I'd cleaned up;  Neither of us shared our concerns over what we now know was profound lethargy;  Fred had wondered to himself whether there wasn't more... clumped material issuing from the litter boxes.  And so on and so forth -- thirst, weight gain, followed by weight loss, hunger.

Two ships passing in the night -- Fred was going to bed at 4 am, just as I was getting up.  Thank goodness, by then The Fredster was concerned enough about "Little Boy" to chat in those wee hours.

He -- the cat -- had projectile vomited all over the kitchen.  Neither of us could recall any such prior contributions.  After that, the little guy tottered over to the bed, climbed in, and quite literally fell asleep.  His exhaustion was palpable.

We don't mess around when our animals need care.  It's in their contract and it is the least we can do for insisting they share their lives with us.  It's the least we can do for the hours of affection and entertainment.

So, at 4 am, anticipating a diabetes (or pre-diabetes) diagnosis, we made plans to call the vet sometime today and go in with him maybe on Tuesday.

By 6:30, UKBB had moved from the bed to a recently favored rug and his strange little family was keeping an eye on him, as well as their noses.  Dobby and Marmy clearly found his smell "off."

That was what made it all click.  You probably saw this coming in the first paragraph. 

Ketoacidosis.

By the time we rushed him to the vet, his blood sugar was off the chart, off the monitor, as high as could be measured.  His eyes were dull, pupils wide, respirations shallow and fast.  He was kind of responsive -- to us, at least -- We who so much wanted a response that we were talking ourselves into seeing one.  He was dehydrated and his temp was low.

I don't like this particular vet very much.  She did not earn points with us when she cared for Sammy last summer, and when we first took in UKBB, she missed several abscesses and just generally seemed careless.  I am sure that opinion is not fair and is colored by our worry, as he was in horrible shape back then (errrr, as opposed to now?).

However, she was spouting textbook-quality plans of action today, and seems to know her way around a diabetic crisis.  We will have to transfer L'il Boy from the vet's office to a veterinary emergency room at 5 pm, as they plan to start frequent tiny fast-acting insulin shots overnight and he will have to be closely monitored.  Right now, they are trying to correct his electrolytes and just get him rehydrated.

The morals of this story, for you cat lovers and "owners" out there, are to share your observations of any aberrant behavior/symptoms and to never put off going to the vet when a concern does finally coalesce.
Also, ketoacidosis can happen like *that* -- very fast.  Get ready to move, to fly like the wind.

I am kind of kicking myself for not giving him a little shot of my insulin -- but I kept thinking, what if we are wrong and this is not related to diabetes... I could kill the little guy...

Anyway... please keep a good thought for Uncle Kitty Big Balls, right now better known as "Little Boy," that formerly homeless vagabond who looks like he should be gnawing on the end of a stogie and raking in the winnings at a mob-run poker game.  He is in critical condition, "may not make it," and deserves another shot at a life of leisure and wild fun.

Take a good look at your pet today... are there any health issues there that you've been putting off addressing?  Don't delay -- our time is not their time and they rely on us to figure all that cross-species schtuff out.         

What a face.  It's a rough weekend for Uncle Kitty Big Balls.

P.S. Virginia Tech doesn't have a prayer and I think Carolina will be seeing Duke in the finals, where Chapel Hill will, once again, show itself vastly inferior to the product out of Durham Town.

P.S.S.  Well, now it is Clemson that didn't get my memo.  They're blowing Carolina out at the half...  In other, infinitely more important news, the vet just called.  UKBB has warmed up to 99.5 from 97, now has a blood pressure of at least 60, whereas it wasn't palpable before.  His labs are not too bad, except for the obvious electrolyte imbalances in potassium and sodium.  He is getting a good amount of sodium from the large bolus and i.v.s they are using, and they will slowly raise the potassium.  He remains lethargic, not reacting much to even being stuck.  His respirations had improved but, for some reason, he is speeding back up again.  HIS BLOOD SUGAR REMAINS OVER 700.  They have yet to address that, and won't, until we move him to the emergency facility at 4:30-5.  I think she sounded more optimistic, as the labs came back better than anticipated.  She actually praised us to high heaven for picking up on what was wrong and not chalking it up to a virus or something.  Sorry, but we are not feeling too happy with ourselves... She said some cats begin their diabetic life by just hitting the wall -- and that's what our guy did.  So fast, just a matter of hours.  Thank goodness we knew a little bit about how things unfold, but we should have been vastly more concerned.  Please learn from our mistake.  Hopefully, UKBB won't pay too high a price for our tired reaction times. 

In the meantime, the basketball gods are going to punish "my" teams, and while I am really sorry for that, what did you expect would happen?

Wednesday Morning Blahs

What a long night. I would sleep maybe 40 minutes at a stretch, then get up (and getting up ain't easy), wander around a while, get back in bed (again, not easy), lather, rinse, repeat.

There is a lot on my mind but none of it is new, none of it is particularly remarkable.

There is pain, unremarkable pain. There is spasticity, funky jumpy spasticity. There is something that doesn't qualify as pain -- not discomfort, no, it's more mobile than your ordinary "oh my..." It shoots by; It pivots, twists, turns; It burns.

Visual trickery drags my mood down low -- When I wake and turn on the light, the lamp goes in and out of focus, is confusing, has no depth. That's what is happening more and more -- a loss of light, a loss of depth. I did not realize how much we depend on depth in the not-so-simple activity of identifying the things around us, the familiar things we don't have to mull much over... usually. In the last few days, I have not been able to identify the following: an overhead fan, a foot, a pillow.

I am having great fun, however, with the many misreadings I make of novels, blogs, instructions, and even traffic signage.  (Not to worry, I am not driving.)  Sometimes it is fun to just go with the misperception -- very revealing, too, as all is supplied by one's own errant brain. 

Sometimes.
Not today, though.
It's raining, a little on the cool side. It is early, even for me, and my eyes are so messed up that subjecting them to close reading seems cruel and pointless.
Besides, someone needs to use this Flip Video thingy. 
Hmm, let's see.  I'm not dressed, Fred is still abed, and I don't hear any Domestic Staff bustling around.  It's just me and the cats.  Hmmmmmm.

How are the cats these days, you ask?  (And aren't you the Sweet One!)  In the ongoing battle with our environment here in this wing of Marlinspike Hall, we are making a concerted effort to wean The Extant Felines {{waving to Sam-I-Am, my Heaven-based liege lord}} from their habit of scratching furniture.  In our wisdom, we decided this would best be achieved by eliminating even the whiff of boredom from their daily fare.

Since, absent Sammy, they are a familial unit, there's not too much rivalry among them, it's mostly a matter of not letting them succomb to ennui. Marmy Fluffy Butt and Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy) are siblings. Marmy rules, but only because she went through the fiery initiation of surviving on the street for eight months, the last weeks with a hell of a big belly on her tiny frame -- a belly full of kittens. We don't know what she went through out there, but it wasn't sweetness and light. So what Marmy wants, Marmy gets.

She has done the proverbial 180 since Sammy died. Suddenly, I was her greatest find since kibble. There are nights when it is *precisely* Miss Marmy Fluffy Butt's doing that I fail to sleep, for she must be attached to me, on top of me, head-butting me, murmuring her *ack*-*ack*s and staring, with great intent, deep into my burning red eyes.

                                              Ms. Marmy Fluffy Butt, Sister to Uncle Kitty Big Balls, Mother to Dobby

We have a relationship based on Attention Paid to Marmy, Marmy's Grooming, BellyRubs of Marmy, and, most of all, Whispered Expressions of Admiration for Marmy.  She does not much like boys of any sort, lacks -- completely -- maternal instincts, and is about as blatantly manipulative as they come.

She's a hard girl to love, and her delight at having Master SamWise disappear from her competitive world did nothing to endear her.  Of all the group, she is the most strange, estranged, separate.  But then she will go and do something silly, and most all her hardness is forgiven.  Lately, that has been her wild trips on slippery new floors, trips begun back in Fred's work room, full speed achieved while weaving her way through our tiny wing's living quarters, dodging tables, leaping over rugs, sliding under the odd davenport, sling-shotting her way around tight corners, and slamming on the brakes about 15 feet from the book case packed with old, soft paperbacks...  Chin in the air, paws prancing, a red glint peeking out the corner of an eye, she accepts your admiration, your glee at her uninjured state, then she goes all cartoon on you again, and reverses direction...

We are not sure she realizes that she is mother to Dobby. It doesn't matter.  He is, in any event, acceptable to her as a playmate from time to time.  She has been known to slap him silly for no discernable reason, behavior that makes her a frequent object of his contemplation.  He is a forgiving little soul, is Dobby.

He was the runt of the litter.  Marmy, in fact, had just up and quit the birthing process with Dobby's arrival in the queue.  Fred delivered him -- she took no interest.  We were convinced he'd never make it, as his contrary nature showed itself from the very beginning.  He would bypass a teat in favor of climbing as high as possible and often ended up perched on her confused head while his sisters and brothers gorged on milk.  Like most runts, he could be found either excluded and alone, or surrounded and smushed at the bottom of a pile-o'-kittens.  He was the one who promptly fell off the bed, thought the litter box a fine place to sleep... oh, and he was the one who was fascinated by the great big cat, Sammy.  Very David and Goliath.  A weeks old kitten purring at the hissing, wild-eyed (terrified) grown boy.

[Sammy was so afraid of Marmy and her kittens that we had to CARRY him past them in order to get him to the litter box.]

So, of course, Dobby and Sam-I-Am became best buddies, and spent most of their time together, sleeping and playing.  It was wonderful to witness how Sammy grew into himself at long last with the help of this weird little star-faced runt.

Dobby and Sam-I-Am

Dobby definitely rules the roost without knowing it.  His needs are easy to meet, his desires mostly reasonable. 

He still spends several hours each evening looking for Sammy, going from room to room, calling.  We try our best to distract him but lately it has started to piss me off.  I don't want to think about a dead cat every evening.  I don't want to repeatedly comfort this little manipulative elf, not when it drags me down to do it.  Anyway...

We haven't filmed it yet -- but we will.  One of Dobby's massage sessions.  They are... um... weird.  Fred started it when he was but a gaseous kitten and now The Dobster insists upon it several times a day.  What?  Well, I guess you could call it an intestinal rub, a very deep tissue massage.  He promptly assumes the position, a sort of intense in-folding, living origami.  It looks, frankly, like a sexual torture session, except that there is no genital contact, no sexual overtone, undertone, nada.  Just a strange, wild-eyed look upon a feline's face while his body contorts with painful pleasure.

If you can keep your hand from cramping, at about the 5-minute mark, the little guy usually falls asleep.

Uncle Kitty Big Balls, Dobby's uncle, has made a remarkable recovery from the sorry state he was in at the beginning of his stay here at Marlinspike Hall.  Mostly bald with weeping sores, severely underweight, abscessed -- he lost most of one foot and just generally had a tough time.

I had refused to allow his adoption at the time we took his preggers sister Marmy in -- he looked rough and mean.  Plus he didn't like me.  He loved Fred.  Didn't like me one bit. 

Convinced he would do well as a sort of "neighborhood cat," I chose to ignore his obvious love affair with Fred.  You could hear Fred crooning to him as they sat by the moat late at night in the warm summer months.  Then he disappeared.  The cat, not Fred.  Without discussing it, we each concluded that he must have been hit by a car...

Last April, I was hanging out in the ICU, being lazy, letting a ventilator do the hard work of breathing, when Fred charged into the unit and announced that he had something vitally important to discuss with me.

"He wants to turn off the machines and let me die...  Hmm.  Wait a minute.  I thought I was doing better!
Oh, God, he's having an affair..."

No, it was the cat.  "He's back!  It's a miracle!  I am going to trap him and take him to the vet.  I want to adopt him.  I know it is extra work, extra vet costs.  I will take care of him... I'll pay the difference... blahblahblah." 

What did I care?  I was on a freaking respirator.

So Uncle Kitty Big Balls began his own private medical odyssey while I eventually got back to my stunning baseline, and we both came "home" on the same day -- me from the fancy-schmancy medical center, and he from the vet.

He's a gentle soul, it turns out, and so content just being warm, dry, and fed.  If you add affection and the familial predilection for the tummy rub, he's ecstatic with joy.

He went, however, from underfed and sickly-looking to overfed and excessively corpular.  Robust.  I call him El Gordo when Fred is not around.  He clearly has plans for avoiding any future episodes of hunger.  Because he sincerely seems hungry and because feeding three cats is enough of a headache already without individualizing one of those diets... we aren't putting him on a diet.  Per se.

I found the perfect thing:  The PetSafe SlimCat Food Distributor Ball, Blue.  $5.65 at Amazon.  What could be better than a food-based exercise program?

So I introduced this new bit of higher education to the Extant Felines this morning... and this is what, ummm, "happened":  

The Family

Fred snapped this a few hours ago -- finally, these three together in a photograph. In order from the left: Marmy Fluffy Butt, Dobby, and our newest addition, Uncle Kitty Big Balls.

That they are related is clear. Marmy is Dobby's mother and Uncle Kitty Big Balls' sister. We took Marmy in when she and UKBB were both strays, and she was about as hugely pregnant without bursting as possible.

She had a litter of five, of which we kept the runt, Dobby. Marmy remained almost completely feral for another year, but this past year she turned some mental corner and became a very loving and sociable cat. She's not particularly bright, but she seems happy. She has become a real girly girl lately, and demands more one-on-one time than any of them. Very, very coy is she.

Dobby, you've met.

Uncle Kitty Big Balls. What a guy. He remained on the street for another year or so, although he came to visit now and again. The visits were becoming fewer and he began showing up with wounds, loosing hair, etcetera. There was a long stretch where he seemed to have disappeared and we feared the worst. I had put my foot down after three cats, but felt horribly guilty.

Last April, I was in ICU on a ventilator (just hanging out), and Fred came into my room looking terribly distraught. He said there was something he needed to talk to me about.

"Oh, my God, he's leaving me. He can't handle this anymore."

"Uh-oh. Maybe he wants to disconnect the respirator, the bastard!"

So I wasn't exactly the Reigning Queen of The Cogent!

He informed me that UKBB had turned up just as he was leaving to come to the hospital to be with me, and he was very sorry, but he simply was going to have to take him in. He looked to be near death, and was holding a rear leg off the ground, and clearly had abscesses all over another leg. He barely had any fur left and he was almost skeletal.

How wonderful that acquiescing to such an easy request could make someone so happy. So he left me there in ICU, and ran home to trap this wild and dying cat.

UKBB and I recuperated in syncopated time. Both of us needed a long convalescence. Sadly, part of a rear foot had to be amputated, and he battled severe infections post-op. We dutifully downed our antibiotics together, though it was clear from the beginning that I was just some girl... whereas Fred? Fred was his saviour! He still suffers something akin to a feline panic attack when he cannot locate Fred within the bazillions of rooms and acres of land here at Marlinspike Hall, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).

He has become our first overweight cat, though if The Castafiore and Fred are to be believed, no one is feeding him little treats shaped like fishes, tasting of eggy tuna, and designed to prevent furballs -- because his fur! His fur is thick and beautiful, the softest thing we have ever felt, our friends have ever felt, even the parish priest is astonished by the silky nothingness of his mane...

So, he's fat and we are not to blame. It is perversely pleasing to see him eat to his heart's content, after all his time hungry and cold on the street.

I cannot keep from laughing out loud when he looks at me. He looks like a Wise Guy, a mafioso. All banged up, eyes crossed. When we're not around, he likes a good stogie. We don't promote smoking but somehow his humidor is ridiculously well stocked with the best cuban cigars. That Bianca!

He has a very sweet and sensitive spirit. He spent almost no time acting ridiculously feral like his sister Marmy had done. No, he took to domestication as if he were the original housecat.

Here is his mugshot:

Our fourth cat, the awesome Sam-I-Am is the eldest now, which is a shock to him, and to us, as he spent many years in the position of postulant. Dobby has been a new life force to him, and I catch them playing like maniacs, Sammy behaving like he was but a few months old, and not a decade into this affair.

But this post seemed more dedicated to The Family: Marmy Fluffy Butt and her valiant brother Uncle Kitty Big Balls, and The Dobster.

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.

The Heimlich Maneuver for Cats

What a way cool moment the felines and I shared early this morning!

Unable to sleep, I was serving up breakfast at 4:30 am and boiling water for lime sugar free jello (to be enhanced by a nice celery dice) -- yes, I *am* an adept multitasker, thank you for noticing.

During a pause in the action, I was reviving myself with a bowl of bran flakes, tootsies stretched toward the huge stone hearth in this, one of Marlinspike Hall's largest kitchens. We keep a fire going year round -- there always seems to be a bit of a chill here, deep deep in the Tête de Hergé.

Something made me look over to the Kitty Chow-Down Area, where I saw Dobby in dire straits. His entire body was convulsing in an attempt to breathe, his paws fighting some invisible enemy, theft of his oxygen -- all without making a sound. Marmy was sitting ramrod straight by his side, looking alarmed. (Yep, that was the extent of her maternal reaction.)

I careened over to poor Dobby, popping a wheelie on the way, hair flying in the breeze of my own speed. I scooped him up, flipped him over, screamed from the pain in my arms and shoulders, and performed a perfect (if I do say so myself) rendition of the Heimlich Maneuver for Cats.

What a sweet moment when a big glob of goo flew out of his mouth--Ptooey! and Splat! -- onto the fridge door.

Marmy went and sniffed it, sashaying her little fluffy butt.

Dobby leapt off my lap and without much of a pause, resumed eating.

Oh -- an update on the condition of Our Gimp, Uncle Kitty Big Balls. The "toe" of his right rear paw was amputated, and the vet also had to take a large bit of the metatarsal. Another abscess spontaneously opened and drained on the thigh of his left rear leg, to go along with the one on his "ankle." He has drains in each leg and a huge bandage (dry on wet) over the operated site.

The Fredster enlisted my help Friday night as aide to the Changing of the Gauze, but had several ADHD moments that made the situation somewhat less than stellar. And so, last night, per his assinine request, I did *nothing* to assist.

And so it was that soon after he began, Uncle Kitty Big Balls sank his sharp little teeth into Fred's big toe -- punctured it top and bottom, and did not extract his little dental tools cleanly, either. Unfortunately, there was almost no bleeding.

And so it was that Fred had to call the local Marcus Welby, MD, drive to the pharmacie and begin a round of Cipro... I think he was supposed to update his tetanus shot, too, but hey! I had no questions to ask, no bright ideas to share -- per his own instructions.

No, I am not happy it happened... just pissed that he has to be so stubborn, to his own detriment. Easier on him, easier on Uncle Kitty Big Balls, and a nice change of pace for me if I even do as little as tuck the little dude under my good arm so that reaching that back leg is less fraught with danger.

Poor little guy, we gave him the last of his pain medication last night -- and he is obviously still in considerable pain this morning, carefully holding that heavily bandaged leg away from all surfaces.

I'll have to recount the tale of my heroism and Dobby's near death experience to him, distract him a little. Even after the Great Toe Attack, it is clear that Uncle K. is a pacifist, a gentle soul.

Lordy, I hope that toe doesn't get infected.

Fred has joined the "BID" antibiotic dosing routine -- at noon and midnight, I am hooked up to vancomycin, Uncle Kitty Big Balls gets his liquid amoxicillen, and now, Fred, himself, has to take his twice-a-day Cipro!