Sunday's Salvation: Stupid Cat Videos, Reprised

What do we need?  We need cat videos!  These are old, but made me laugh.

First, we have Buddy in a Box.  Unfortunately, most of the footage of Buddy in a Box consists of no sign of Buddy but minute after minute of a mysteriously wiggling box.  Since he is more interested in me, for some reason, than his Bodacious Box, you lucked out this time, Beloved Readers!

Isn't it amazing how HUGE he has gotten, this freakishly large kitten that turned out to be a Maine Coon? Fred and I peer helplessly at one another and cry, "Who knew?" several times each day.

Next we have the Old Married Couple Series.  These are three videos of Dobby and Buddy, who suddenly have decided to promulgate peace, love, and understanding instead of trying to wipe each other from the face of the planet.  Okay, so Buddy is something of a recidivist, as he goes for Dobby's throat in the second video -- but he gets over the impulse and is soon right back to being a perversely large kitten, and all cuddly again in the third take.

As usual, please ignore the audio.  Seriously, it's embarrassing.

 © 2013 L. Ryan

Love in the Time of Dobby

Dobby is obsessed with grooming.  Rather, Dobby is obsessed with being brushed.  We have, at least, five different brush sets -- some meant for humans, which he prefers, and the more expensive, less effective ones designed specifically for cats.

He immediately separates the comb from the brush.  The comb means that I am going after the trouble spot at the base of his tail -- dandruff -- and he does not enjoy that.  Usually, he knocks it to the floor.  Today, he just made off with it.

All the cats are bothered by recording, except Buddy, whose arrival coincided with my first video camera.  So I was very surprised that Dobby behaved fairly normally, except that he didn't flop and  "give me the belly" with his usual alacrity.  His belly produces a prodigious amount of hair that I'd rather brush off at the source than breathe in off a pillow...

He is also extremely paranoid about the other cats seeing him groomed.  He heard Buddy in another room at some point and his head barely swiveled away from that point on...

We do this at least three times a day -- this was clearly more play than a dedicated effort to get at his shedding hair.  This is Dobby Time.

Buddy is no Maru and I survived another birthday

I don't know that I've ever tried to write with such a headache before.  This may prove interesting. It's not awful, just awfully concentrated behind my left eye, so I'm squinting, and being already afflicted with interesting vision -- well, writing just got more interesting!  [Note to self:  Spare your readers.  Do NOT revise post by substituting accurate adjectives for "interesting." Sometimes "vague," like "fun," is good.]

My mother and I share a birthday, and I am glad to say that we did it again, day before yesterday.  Especially glad am I because she was, and may still be, in her small town ICU.  I spoke with her, not because I dutifully or joyfully hit ICU speed-dial so that we could gush about getting older together, right on cue, no.  Rather, my bone-weary half-sister Lale, a true force of nature, pulled one of those tricks.

You know what I'm talking about.  I mean, how many years did you fall for the old "pull my finger" gag?  Admittedly, I am probably the world's most gullible person, still -- I should have had my guard up.  But Lale feels strongly that she knows what is right and then, well, there is that "force of nature" thing going on.

So I'm semi-awake and chatting with her, getting the update on the Mother-Unit's health when Lale says, in one breath, words-in-a-taut-string: "Ask her yourself, here she is..." and BAM!  There she is, mother of moi, me, her 29th birthday present, languishing on the other end of what has to be one of those genius phones.

My phone?  Bottom of the bottom of the barrel.  I have to push certain plastic parts in different directions to be able to half-hear the person or (most often) the automated bill collector on the other end.

But we had a nice chat, we did.  She's cogent -- Lale told me that she remembered her husband was dead (it's been a few years) after only one reminder -- and that's an accomplishment for any hospitalized person these days, much less an elderly woman in an intensive care unit.  I should remember to tell her, and Lale, that I promptly lose my mind whenever the elevator doors even open onto a critical care unit.  I have what is known as "ICU psychosis," engendered, I'm told, by the constant noise and light, drugs, etc.  But I know the underlying truth:  It's just like giving a Permanent Hall Pass to my natural craziness.  I see and hear things, experience the darnedest adventures -- last time, I spent an entire day attempting to help three Archangels successfully blow my head off with legally obtained and properly permitted shotguns.  They were lousy shots.  Apparently, I kept taking one arm to use for pointing to my big bedhead head, which I kept raising off the pillow -- trying to make the target easier to hit.  The good thing is that my nurses and doctors, despite repeated interrogations ["What the hell are you trying to do?"], never did understand that I was attempting to assist in my own assassination by God's Blessèd Assassins.  Good thing, too, that I never pointed them out -- all three Archangels were slumped in ratty old outdoor aluminum-framed chairs -- the old-fashioned woven plastic kind, plaid.  One of them being terribly overweight, his butt was hanging a bare half-inch from the ICU floor.  Off to the side was an equally old tiny television set, perched on a TV dinner tray table, rabbit ears accented with twists of foil.  The three holy ones would watch a few minutes of infomercials, then load up and fire off shots at my head, then curse when their projectiles just busted out another window, or ripped through a beeping IVAC pump.

Other ICU psychosis experiences?  Most involved schemes of escaping the unit.  I once even called my Brother-Unit Grader Boob, thanking him profusely for having landed a helicopter on the hospital roof, then belaying down with a team of White Hat Black Ops to rescue me from my false imprisonment beneath a respirator.  It still astonishes me that anyone gave me a phone to make the call.  Apparently -- they had just extubated me -- my babbling about my brother was construed as a need to call and express my love for him, and my gratitude for having survived near death.  Instead, I regaled him with praise, saying "I didn't even know you knew how to fly a helicopter!"

So my mother did great -- she was, in fact, sitting there eating a slice of birthday cake that the food service folk had specially prepared for her.  If they can stabilize her blood pressure, I think she's headed home soon.

But you gotta be on your toes around that Lale girl... She thinks my phone phobia is a made-up thing, something I invented to avoid talking to that wing of my Fucked-Up Family.  But no, it's real as can be.  I dislike phones, always have.  But that dislike has blossomed into what I think is a real technical phobia -- I mean, I probably need psychiatric treatment to get over it.  It's not so bad when there is business to conduct.  I could, at this point, yell at Walmart pharmacists all the livelong day.  But chat with a person about... life... and "stuff"?  God help me, I start hoping to see my slouching, crabby Archangels taking aim.

No offense to TW, whom I've only spoken with a couple of times, and each time hung up with a smile from ear-to-ear, but the best phone person, for me, is the oft-mentioned Grader Boob.  I think because we both profess to be teachers and promptly enter the Twilight Zone of Student Stories.  It takes about 30 seconds for the both of us to be reduced to tears from laughter.  Both TW and Grader Boob, however, can also piss moi off to no end with what must be a genetic tendency to refuse to directly answer Important Questions.  You know, of the "How Are You, **Really**?" sort.  These tend to be asked after I've been informed that they've taken dives down stairwells or slipped on ice and broken their beloved shoulders, or lost a long loved love.  Then, I guess I become, once again, that annoying chubby little sister who just wouldn't get it, anyway.

Harrumph.

So, yeah, I had a birthday!  It was great.  Coffee in bed, and not just once, but twice.  Music of all sorts.  And a card from the ambulance-chaser lawyer who got me a check for $1,000 15 years ago after I was injured in a car accident.  He always encloses a very useful calendar, too, that we promptly affix to the fridge.

For my birthday repast, I insisted on Indian take-out.  My beloved favorite restaurant had moved to a location so far away I had not the heart to make Fred and Ruby drive the distance, so intense research turned up a very funky nearby place that provided us with beaucoup, beaucoup delicious fare.

Normally, I ask for cherry pie in lieu of birthday cake.  The restaurant menu, however, lured me toward one of their two desserts, a sort of pudding that was pure heaven, while Fred went into ecstacy with pistachio ice cream.

Then we lay in bed and moaned.

I had hoped to also watch a movie, but alas, Xfinity On Demand tricked me, and the free flicks I had picked out turned out not to be so free.  Yes, I do refuse to pay... even on my birthday.  I think that, too, is genetic.

But I had fun watching "Chopped" with Fred.  He's a hoot.  And a very good cook.  Bless his bones forever, though, he got upset over an idea I've long been considering.  I thought it would be great fun for all the people who do the cooking for Fred's Wednesday Night Suppers (you know, with the Militant Lesbian Existentialist Feminists) to have a "Chopped" competition.  We could choose someone to put together "mystery baskets" of odd ingredients and see what resulted.  But sweet Fred actually got teary-eyed over the potential hurt involved in "competition." My heart swells, right now, just remembering:  "I don't like competitions.  People get hurt."

Okay, honestly?

I felt like saying, "Oh, come on, we're talking more like a theme party than a serious competition... and the Mystery Baskets can be engineered as more 'easy as pie' than real gourmet challenges!"

But then I saw that he actually had tears in his eyes.  No shit.

Fred's waters run deep.

I had forgotten that he won't even play board games, or cards.  That he eschews most sporting events due to their tendency to insist on scoring, and winners, and losers.

I love Fred. What he stands for.  Still... c'mon.  Anyone wanna do a Chopped Challenge with me?

So... that was my birthday.  It was fun, my mother didn't die, the food was fantastic, and the company, perfect.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, however, ate THREE entrée-sized servings of saag paneer and was running back-and-forth most of the night, so I ended up awake the whole night-after-the-birthday.

Which takes this narrative quite easily into yesterday, when I was exhausted and highly feverish, rather peevish, and in a shitload of pain.  Some people with chronic pain believe that if you have a good day, the following few days will be spent "paying the piper."

I am one of them!

I am still paying that talented piper today, but at least my mood is good, Fred seems to have recovered from the suggestion of the cooking contest, and Bianca is no longer racing for the loo, screaming insults against the Indian sub-continent.  [Oh, she and Sven are on the outs.  Kind of a good thing, really, because we'd have had to order four times as much food.  I think they'll get back together.  I don't believe in "soul mates" nonsense, but those two are cut from the same cloth.  Now, Cabana Boy has been nosing around, and that may spice things up a bit -- but, God, I hope not.  It may well be that the Adult Faction of Marlinspike Hall is ready for an extended period of Bland Times.]

The Walmart Wars continue, but now are in the hands of three investigatory bodies -- one regional Board of Pharmacy, the Tête de Hergé Department of Health & Human Services Office of Inspector General's Office of Investigations... and my insurance company.

But there's always a fuck-up, correct?  I emailed my Go-To-Guy and his Super Nurse on the advice of the insurance company, asking that they call the company directly to get the prior authorization thang taken care of, and submitting directly to them a new prescription.

Oh, dear Lord.  Wham, bam, I got three responses within an hour from my intrepid medical team.  Their reaction was pure outrage that Walmart had claimed their office had failed to respond to two requests for prior-authorization schtuff, and they were going to, by Jove, set those people straight.

I felt my brain explode a little.  I did not respond, for two reasons.  One, it was then late Friday afternoon, and nothing goes right in the "business" world on late Friday afternoons.  Two, explaining in detail the steps I had already taken to exact justice for us all would only have made the water so very, very muddy.  There is also a three.  Three, my dear doc is a devout person, and I hate to put something annoying on his mind at the approach of Sabbath.

But please, please, hope along with me that they did NOT call this particular Walmart Pharmacy, now under investigation, and try to submit ANOTHER Rx.

In other news:  I was thrilled at Panetta's announcement of the reversal of policy regarding women in combat.  Somehow, I kind of doubt that you know why I was thrilled.  But in proof certain that Fred and I are, like Sven and The Castafiore, cut from the same cloth, we shared the rationale of gladness.  If Hawks, usually of the TeaBagger sort, truly are outraged at the thought of Cindy Lou in a body bag, maybe they will temper their Hawkishness.  Maybe, probably at a subconscious level, they will avoid armed conflict and war, the better to avoid Cindy Lou sloshing around in black plastic and a pine coffin.

Yes, we all know women have been involved in "front line" combat for a long while now, particularly since the "front line" so rarely exists any longer.  Cindy Lou driving a Maintenance Vehicle in support of a fighting outfit is at much on the "front line" as the men she is following.  And, as Rep. Tammy Duckworth hilariously pointed out, she did not lose her legs in "a bar fight."

There is another side to me (at least one other!), though, that also concurs with Duckworth and other career military women -- their career advancement has been diverted and denied because of a failure to recognize their actual battle experience, or through denying them that "opportunity." Honestly, we are talking less about hand-to-hand, muzzle-to-muzzle nonsense than we are more strategic jobs.  And man, do I wish the machomacho men spewing idiocies would calm down and read the provision more closely -- the physical requirements for any combat positions are not going to be changed.  Anorexic and weak-kneed Cindy Lous are not going to attempt lugging Big Bad Linebacker Lou to safety after he's been hit by enemy fire.

I'd have to go check my facts and I don't feel like it at the moment (ahh, the integrity of my blogging), but I believe the Israelis chose to remove women from front line positions after a study revealed that male soldiers' attention became all addlepated when faced with decisions such as choosing which fallen soldier to attend to first, as a medic, when one was a woman, and the other a man.  Yeah, well.  There are many fogs to war.

What else?  Oh, I will miss Tom Harkin.  He did good work.

Oh, and I like the bangs.

I disagree with the ruling about Presidential appointments during congressional recesses.  Did I hear it would be appealed to the good brothers and sisters of the Supreme Court?

I thought Hillary was masterful in her hearings.  I still am using my "Hillary for President" water bottle but doubt it will still be in use by 2016.  I also found think we will never know the truth of what happened that day in Benghazi, not if Hillary can help it.

The thought of the many Syrian refugees makes me want to cry, a not very useful response. And my brain is befuddled by Egypt.

I tepidly applaud Iraq's parliament in trying to prevent Prime Minister Nuri Kamal al-Maliki from another term.

Okay, the truth is... I am trying to fake myself out.  Do a sleight of hand against my own hands. What is really weighing on my mind... drones.  Drones and Obama's hit list.  I have a hit list of my own.  It started as a joke.  Then one day, I thought about it.  Given the chance, the right circumstance, yes, I would pull the trigger to take out one of those who made my list.  And I'd accept the consequences, which I imagine would occur faster than I could blink.  I like, too, the idea of taking someone out without the loss of so many military pawns, foot-soldiers, kids, fighting under some ridiculous cover story.  And "collateral damage" makes me weep and want to hide for shame.

Some folks need killing in the worst way.

All right, yes.  I also have the vague suspicion of a suggestion of a soupçon that killing of any sort is wrong.  That killing without the courtesy of a look-in-the-eye is cowardly. (Oh, scratch that last sentence.  I don't believe that.  I made it up.  I lied.)

These are the types of issues that send me back to White's Book of Merlyn.

There are so many things about which we all think, about which we do not speak.

An amazing segue, on par, even with "anyway..."!

Cat stories, that's what we need!  Here is an update and a FAIL cat video, starring The One, The Only BUDDY -- all in an effort to save this headache of a blog post!

Okay, whom shall we update first.  Marmy FluffyButt?  Yes.  Why not?  She is beginning to warm up to me again, although at the rate she's warming, I'll be stiff and cold by the time this feline decides I'm worth giving another chance.  Ever since I was put in charge of treating her chronically infected and leaky eyeball, she has cast me into the outer reaches of Hell.  And I don't think Marmy's Hell is the more accessible "circle" or ring.  She spurns Dante.  "Nine circles of suffering? For having put stinging goop into mein eyeball?  The outer atomic layer of the ninth circle does not approach sufficiency of suffering, although the theme is correct, since daring to touch mein eyeball does line up well with Judecca, the hooman Alighieri's spot for flaming Iscariots..." When I heard her say *that*, well, shivers went up my spine.  Her geometrical preference is less for spheres and more for one e-t-e-r-n-a-l line.

But she remains sweet, in spite of the damning obsession 'n all.  Especially after the sun goes down, at which time she has had a good 12-hour nap, and greets her humans as if they were long lost pals.  She will let me rub her beautiful head, scratch her silky chin, and lightly pull on her magnificent poofy tail.  She thinks Fred, Bianca, Sven, the Cabana Boy, and all of the Manor Domestic Staff are the greatest.  Whether she will ever cuddle next to moi again is doubtful.  {sniff}

Dobby!  He continues to bring a smile to the face of all he meets and greets.  If he failes to meet and greet you, it is because, being a very small animal, he is frightened and is hiding in my closet, where stress is making him shed profusely on all of my clean clothes.

We've always been able to hear The Dobster approach, even from as far away as the Over-Sized Pink Opalescent Gala Ballroom.  His toenails made a pleasant tap-tap-tap and he could never figure out his continual failure in sneakiness.  Suddenly, one day last week, I watched him pass by me and realized that I heard... nothing.  Thinking that the Good Lord had decided I needed deafness added to the Affliction List, I consulted with Fred (whom I could hear, O Hosanna!) and he could no longer hear the tap-tap-tap of Dobby, either.

Putting the little guy under surveillance, it turned out that he is assiduously pulling off the ends of his not so talon-like talons.

All the better to tippy-toe behind his frequent attacker, the huge Buddy Boy, and enjoy the thrills of jumping on his head for a change.  Last night, I even saw him tear by the overgrown kitten, who, hearing not a sound, never even knew he'd been bested.

Dobby continues his late night howling, and we've narrowed the causes down to two:  a continual mourning for our beloved Sammy and/or an annoying demand that we break out the laser dot toy.
Both are a bit distressing.  It's time for him to simply think fondly on Sweet Sammy, and when we do break out the laser dot toy, he no longer wishes to chase it, but settles down in an old-fart-in-a-raggedy-barcalounger pose so as to better enjoy the light show.  He leaves the chasing to Buddy, who is thrilled to do it and chases with abandon, albeit also with some confusion, and to Marmy, who has but one plan of attack -- to eat that damned red dot.  She gulps enough air in the chase to cause hours of entertaining burping.

As for updating Buddy's growing fan base on the Maine Coon's progress?  Lordy, lordy.  EVERYTHING is a game.  Therefore, we are often thankful to have undertaken the "soft paw" training when he was truly a baby.  Otherwise, we'd have even deeper and many more scratches from all the "play."

It turns out he suffers a bit from separation anxiety. Because of his constant desire to "play," and this desire's inappropriateness around all the Haddock antique treasure in the Manor, he is restricted to our Private Quarters. Most of the time, it is Fred who takes off in Ruby, and since I'm typically ensconced in bed, he's okay -- though he does visibly perk up upon Fred's return.  But should the both of us leave for a bit, we return to find the neediest cat west of the Lone Alp.  It is very sweet but makes me sad that he is upset, ever.  He's such a happy guy, you see.

His latest Life Adventure is, unfortunately, his first ailment.  Thankfully, it is but a runny and irritated eye.  I am guessing that the newly self-declawed Dobby may have whacked him in the face, though you can never rule out lightening-fast Marmy FluffyButt.  In any event, Fred is gently putting medication in his eye -- and Buddy seems cognizant of this as help and not attack.  As we say so often around here, and to almost anyone, cat or human:  "What a good boy!"

So, let me close this potpourri of a post with a FAIL video of Buddy the Outrageously Large Kitten, and his refusal to stuff himself in a box.  As the YouTube title explains, "Buddy is no Maru."

FAIL: Buddy is no Maru

If you've never watched Maru... you should!

First video with new camera. Be kind.

The scene:  I'm in bed, the Food Network serves as white noise, when Dobby and Buddy both wake from a long August nap.  In typical fashion, there is lots of love and mutual grooming going on as they slowly regain consciousness.  Buddy cannot, however, maintain the love and soon wants to be the beastie Maine Coon that he is, and tries to grab the Dobster by the neck.  This time, Dobby stands up for himself, and also, for good measure, wisely runs away, so as to live another day.  Repeat scene 10-20 times a day, and that about sums up their relationship.

This is, honest, the first attempt at using the video feature on the new Sony HandyCam, after destroying my previous camera in a sink of nice, soapy water.  I'm not sure I like all the results but -- since I am using it with the understanding and mastery of a complete idiot -- for a first effort, I am satisfied.

Yes, one day you will see something besides cats, my hands and feet, and Fred's beautiful belly.  I don't know when, but it's bound to happen.

Friday Cat Videos: Feline Ennui

Trying to salvage something of the week, whipping Marlinspike Hall into shape for the weekend, and wouldn't you know the Feline Remnant declared themselves unhappy and bored.

"Stop revarnishing the Rembrandts and tend to Our Ennui," came the subtle command, transmitted in Fierce Tail Wags and Marmy's unique Hiss-and-*Ack*::*Ack* vocalizations.

Since Marmy had endured a vet visit yesterday... Since Buddy feels himself starved because he's in yet another growth spurt... Since Dobby is... Well, since Dobby *is*... I dug up an old DVD that we'd purchased years ago as a Xmas Pet Stocking Stuffer.

It's called "Feathers For Felines:  A Double Bill Creature Feature For Cats." All natural sounds, and you can set it on an eternal loop, should you want to drive your household permanently crazy.  Otherwise, it runs about two hours.  Mostly birds at feeders and in a typical back yard environment, it also features geese, chipmunks, squirrels, and one very weird frog swimming in a cement pond.

It's certainly not an intelligence test, and it doesn't captivate all cats.  My dear Sam-I-Am could take it or leave it, and Uncle Kitty Big Balls never did figure out that the images and sounds came from the television.  He would try to vault through the window, as he knew for sure those birds were real.  He thought we were under attack and the whole thing made him anxious.  So I'd tucked the DVD away...

Uncle Kitty Big Balls
(Little Boy)

Sam-I-Am

The Blue Jays are the real attention-getters.  Spines straighten, lips are licked, paws reach out, butts quiver.

Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten and Marmy Fluffy Butt are the hunters of the crowd.  Marmy was a street urchin, abandoned with her brother, pregnant, and completely wild.  We took her in because she was the spitting image of Pitiful, her tiny body stretched to the point of bursting, eyes infected, sneezing, and bitchy as all get out.  She wasn't, and isn't, an itty bitty kitty that endeared herself to strangers, so, yes, she knows how to hunt.  And Buddy?  Well, he's a Maine Coon, and from what we can tell, stalking and hunting are hard-wired activities in the creature. We've decided that the best description for Buddy Boy is that "everything is a game." *Everything*.  You may need to stretch your big toe something fierce... to him, it's an invitation -- to pounce, to subdue with a tackle, to consume, even.

As you stroll around Manor grounds, you'll likely hear screams:  "It is not a game!  It is not a game!" [The most fun, for me, is trying to put anything away.  A tee shirt, say.  I manage to put it on the proper shelf, turn to fold another, and wham!  Buddy has it by the sleeve and is rounding the corner at full speed, eyes lit up with glee.  "I've got it!  It's mine, all mine!"

Dobby is very sensitive (Oh, hush.).  He likes the entertainment but is worried, constantly worried.  Is Buddy behaving or is he going to bring these giant birds down on my pea-sized head?  Marmy, how are your eyes? don't get to close to the screen!  Is that wily squirrel really in the Boob Tube or should we post a sentry?  Dobby paces the battlements, the weight of the world's welfare scrambling his sweet brains.  One belly rub to the rescue!

Dang.  He can be really disconcerting, Dobby.  I just looked up to see him intently watching Buddy watch the birds.  Laser focus.  Creepy.

Huh.  Buddy is the only one who repeatedly checks behind and alongside the telly for any varmints that may have leaked out.  An indication of his kitten status, I s'pose.

Anyway.  I had fun watching them watch the birds. (And each other.) Hope you do, too. [I'm trying to correct this, but for the moment, the audio -- mostly chirping birds, with occasional responses from Buddy -- has disappeared.]

Prelude to a Chase

I love watching these two in the minutes prior to out-and-out battle, head-to-head racing.  They claim opposite sides of the room, they glance, they look away.  One advances, the other retreats. They sidle.  They swagger. The aggressor stalks off, silently pursued by his prey...

Within minutes, they'll fly through here again, ears in the wind, tails whipping, exchanging the lead, tumbling and skidding, setting new land speed records, having the time of their lives...

Cat Videos and Pity Parties

The plan, which I never hide from my Dear Readers, is to salvage this post with a few lame videos of the cats of Marlinspike Hall.  I've been trying to put together some footage of Dobby the Runt and his affinity for all things "butt," however, the little guy has an uncanny awareness of the camera and refuses to be cute or even very butt oriented in its presence.

He senses that I'm drifting into Trouble Territory, however, and may just think that wasting my troubled time recording his predilection for tail pulls and rear whacks is a little too ridiculous, even for me.  Dobby has never before been a lap cat but now gently climbs all over me -- still causing a few episodes of spontaneous screaming when he missteps -- and stares.  I've noted before that he never got the "staring is aggression" memo.  

Dobby will stare at you, pupils huge, all placid-faced and irresistibly pink-nosed -- absolutely luminous -- for as long as 15 or 20 minutes.  He doesn't mind in the least should you stare back, though he does pick up on *your* aggression, should you harbor any.  Should you be thinking, for example, "Why the hell is this cat staring at me?  What, do I have mustard greens stuck to my teeth?  Does he know about that vet appointment?"

The iconic photograph of Dobby, iconic for those of us who know his unique character and weirdnesses, is called "Dobbox."  The love of boxes is not unique, of course, but he seemed to consider this small one a sort of home base, from whence he could survey the world, and particularly, Fred, with immunity from accusations  of Stare Aggression.  He'd trot over to it, hop  in, do the "perfect cat" pose, and immerse himself in the pleasure of staring at Fred, who kept the box next to his office chair.

We used to enjoy yelling out "olly olly oxen free," and then watching Dobby careen around the corner, head high, ears flattened, tail whipping in his own wake, flying to his box.

One night, Fred was working (assiduously, always assiduously -- there's no time wasting going on, no, not ever) and felt The Runt's eyes boring through the back of his lovely curly head.  Dobby sat in his box, adoring Fred, with hardly a blink of a break, for over 20 minutes.  At the 20 minute mark, in fact, Fred snapped this picture.  You know, the iconic one.

Dobbox

I created one of those "Magic Movies"  that Flip video offers for videographers afflicted with shaking hands and not much imagination, using what little The Dobster allowed to be recorded -- a couple of lame butt whacks, tail pulls, and the obligatory scene with a brush.  Excuse me, *The* Brush.  We've purchased five different brushes in an attempt to get him to give up chirping and grabbing for the worn out one seen here, to no avail.  He sniffs them, then bats them on the floor, and begins the most god-awful wailing you've ever heard.

It's lame but hey, it's a cat video, and that buys me a few paragraphs for a Pity Party and enough space for a CRPS / RSD update of my feet and hands -- the going rate for the blogger who navel-gazes.

I see the orthopedic surgeon, Dr. ShoulderMan, this afternoon, for the second post-op visit.  It's not going to be pleasant, I fear.  Although the decision about whether my immune system can support another prosthesis has already been made, by my body, I still don't look forward to hearing it from him.  

The fistula has reappeared right next to the newly closed wound from the February 13 surgery, which is just below the healed incision from the January 23 operation.  It ain't pretty.  I've been febrile for the last 8 days, with sweats and increased pain, and an almost constant headache.  The Infectious Disease folks didn't bat a proverbial eye before changing the antibiotic, accepting without question my suggestion that the bleeping infection is back, or more likely, has never left, lurking as it does behind the teflon shield of its biofilm.

I have completely dropped the ball regarding the port that is implanted in my chest.  I called the cancer clinic that usually takes care of flushing it every 6 weeks, to keep it patent, and they required a new physician order.  Well, I made that call, but haven't followed up with the appointment, because in the course of conversing with MDVIP Go-To-Guy, he got a little too animated at the idea that the biofilm infectious phenomena might well be happening to/on that port.  My mind shut down.  According to legend, the first culpable biofilm identified came from someone's pacemaker:

[Two years after Costerton coined the word/concept biofilm] Tom Marrie, a young doctor working in Halifax, Nova Scotia, examined a feverish homeless man who had wandered off the street and into his emergency room. The man had a raging staph infection and, on his chest, a lump the size and shape of a cigarette pack. It was an infected pacemaker, Marrie reasoned. For three weeks the man was given huge doses of antibiotics but did not get better, so Marrie and his team decided to operate. They invited Costerton to sit in. “If there were ever going to be a biofilm infection in a human being, it was going to be on the end of that pacemaker,” Costerton says. “We took out the pacemaker and there was our first medical biofilm. It was a great big thick layer of bacteria and slime, just caked on.”


Biofilms on implants are now recognized as a serious and growing health problem. Bacterial infections hit 2 percent to 4 percent of all implants. Of the 2 million hip and knee replacements performed worldwide each year, 40,000 become infected. More than a third of these infections lead to amputation, and not with very successful results: Most of those people die. “Implant operations have a 98 percent success rate, so people don’t want to talk about the infections,” Costerton says. “They’re a bit of a disgrace, really.”


Biofilm infections are not limited to implants. They can be found in the bodies of the young and the healthy. Many children suffer from undiagnosed biofilm infections in their ears, which require months of oral antibiotic therapy while the underlying infection smolders untouched. Millions of others live with chronic biofilms: urinary tract infections in women that last for years; prostatitis that no antibiotics permanently cure; bone infections (osteomyelitis) that cripple and immobilize people for the rest of their lives. Each year roughly 500,000 people in the United States die of biofilm-associated infections, nearly as many as those who die of cancer.


As Marrie’s experience shows, biofilms repel antibiotics, although scientists do not fully understand how. Some drugs cannot fully penetrate the biofilm’s protective matrix. In other cases, even though most of the germs die, enough remain alive to regroup and develop another biofilm. The matrix also keeps its resident germs under cover, hiding the chemical receptors on the bacteria so that drugs cannot latch onto them and kill the germs.


The study of this newly discovered behavior is rooted in the basic and ancient biology of bacteria. Geneticist Bonnie Bassler of Princeton University thinks group-living bacteria may give us a window onto the origins of multicellular life. “Bacteria grow best when each one does its own thing…together,” she says. “Bacteriologists had it wrong for the past 300 years—bacteria don’t live alone.”

Today, then, I must do two things, beyond hearing that my best bet is to be left shoulderless, with a flail arm -- I must arrange for this thing to be flushed, if, indeed, it still can be, and I must call the surgeon who put it in, and arrange for it to be removed.  I got it at the insistance of the doctor who oversaw my subanesthetic ketamine infusions, my last ditch effort to quell the advances of CRPS.  Every doctor and nurse that I have asked, except for MDVIP Go-To-Guy, has insisted that I should keep it -- saying vague things like "you never know,"  voices trailing off with much drama.  Do they USE it?  No!  "It's too close to the infection site, to the incision site..."  "I am not trained to use it..."  "We could use it, but we'd have to get the IV Team..."

Go-To-Guy, I trust him.  He thinks things through, has no interests in play other than my welfare and avoiding as many bumps in the road of this journey as possible.

I was hoping to have the blood work results from Monday before visiting ShoulderMan, as they might give a hint of a clue as to what is going on, but the results aren't in.  Of particular interest, beyond white counts, are the C-Reactive Protein and the sedimentation rate.  Both are indicators of inflammation/infection, but one is elevated in a more acute situation and the other indicates a more chronic course.  Historically, when I've been under the gun from these bacterial miscreants, BOTH tests have been greatly elevated.

I know you are tired of hearing about it.  Well, I am tired of living it.  How I wish that this osteomyelitis and this insane CRPS were deadly instead of causing unlimited pain and disability!

I did a video update of what my feet and hands look like, since the last one was from May 2011, if you don't count the ones I did in January 2012 -- and I don't, because the circumstances then were... what?  Extraordinary?!

My right foot/leg looks about the same, to me.  The left foot is awful, is worse, though it doesn't seem to show the change, visually, not the way I feel it.  Both legs are peeling and have larger areas of "ash."  This despite being cleaned daily, and -- for the past three nights, at least -- coated in lotion.  The skin seems to no longer absorb lotion or oils.

The left leg and foot are the banes of my existence, right now.  Spasming, severely spasming, burning, aching.

My hands are much worse in terms of pain but -- apart from both sets of middle finger and thumb nails (ah, the perverse symmetry of this disorder!) -- look about the same.  Both hands were peeling, much like my feet, so I suppose I have the benefit of "new" skin!  I have significant tremor now, and not the greatest grip in the world, on either side.  It used to be that the pain sort of followed the areas of discoloration, but now the burning and aching extend beyond those former borders.  In the left arm -- all the way to the shoulder.  I very much hope that is going to change.

Dobby is now asleep.  I think I will sit here and stare at him for a while, and try to see the way that he sees.

Or I could get on the phone and start the process of getting this port flushed and yanked.  Wish us luck chez ShoulderMan -- and wish him patience, and insight, as he must surely be as sick of all this as I am.

God's Thorny Donations (With Obligatory Cat Video)

Blood-red, ruby-red, cherry-red, my chipmunk cheeks are crimson.
Stippled and florid, these spotted swollen legs -- so violently inflamed -- are vehement, are ruddy.

"Ruddy is closer to red than to rose," intones one who ought to know.
My bolshy red ink comes to mind.

The synonym-driven blurb above is what greeted me when I popped open the spare laptop balanced on my belly, my first reflex upon regaining consciousness.  Other clues to recent activities included peanut halves, both whole halves and crushed halves, two brushes full of cat hair, several strands of which -- perhaps even amounting to a tress -- were up my nose, the ensuing histamine reaction having been the source of this rude awakening. A novel, cracked open to page 174, lay upside down on the pillow next to me, along with a telephone, a television remote control, and a licked-clean 6-ounce container of peach yogurt. That about sums up life as I know it.

Just joshing!

My face has been bright red or, at least, pleasingly pink, because my fevers have gone up a notch. I don't mind overly much because the other gift of the fevers has been an improved capacity for sleep.

I've been hitting and surpassing the temperatures that doctors say to report pretty early in the day -- peaking at around 11 each morning. I don't bother calling in about fevers -- haven't in a long time, even though achieving such fevers while on steroids is a rather remarkable achievement.

The decision to note them, but to ignore them -- absent three clear symptoms of impending death -- was codified at the end of my hospitalization in September. The day of discharge I felt about as bad as I felt the day of admission, and as I sat listening to the Infectious Disease Dood tell me to be sure and return to the Emergency Department if my fever registered above 100.7, the nurse's aide came in to take my vital signs and announced that my temperature was 100.8.

Infectious Disease Dood scribbled in my chart and started talking faster; The aide noted that my temp was up even after an earlier dosing with Tylenol; I started laughing and couldn't stop. When he had run out of the room and she had filled every available container with ice -- a favorite activity among nurse's aides, especially when I request "just water, please" -- I decided that fevers were insufficient cause for painful bumpy car rides or lame telephonic communications at odd hours to medic-types.

Besides, I often felt better with a spiking fever: energetic and focused, bright-eyed.

Until the last ten days or so. Note: I tend to say "ten days" whenever I really have no clue as to how long something has actually been occurring. I know that two weeks is inaccurate and that the change I wish to highlight has existed beyond a week, so "ten days" seems an acceptable bit of imprecision.

Right... So... The temps have gone up over 101 every day lately (What do you think of "lately" here? Does it work well with the "ten day" notion, that particular span of time?). Instead of energizing me, gifting me -- and hence, you -- with wit, I'm about as dull and listless as can be. Sleepy, pouty, and, to get us back on point, red-cheeked, and afflicted with synonyms.

Also, sweaty.

Until the last few days -- a temporal division about which I feel sure -- spasms and tics have also been part of the gift. Despite concerted attempts to emulate the Apostle Paul, to regard them as God's thorny donation to my imperfections*, there's been little ensuing delight in the weakness, difficulties, or hardships brought on by the violent jerks and stabbing electrical impulses flying up and down my legs and, rarely, forearms.

I've railed against this non-epilepsy before. Spasticity in CRPS is little understood, usually glossed over as just another symptom of a degenerative neurological disease -- or, if you are a turd-like individual named Ochoa, these scream-inducing fits are part of the fakery, evidence of people feigning misery in return for the spoils of attention and disability payments.

I shouldn't even continue to bring the bastard Ochoa up... and wouldn't, except that I've no discipline these days (at least not for the last ten or so!). Also, since the research into CRPS-related spasticity and movement disorders is smack-a-sweet-dimpled-baby-butt new, the investigators are also new to CRPS' sordid history, and cite him at least once, for thoroughness' sake, ignorant of his "expertise" in making money as a forensic expert in tort cases by claiming that CRPS does not exist, or testifying that patients have fabricated the symptoms, out to cheat workers' compensation insurance.

Workplace accidents account for many of the traumatic injuries that constitute the noxious event that can initiate CRPS, and so for decades, the only real public discussion of the disorder came in the courtroom, where injured workers sought compensation benefits, almost always without success. Ochoa profited from others' misery, and perpetuated it, in a manner that can only be described as obscene. Like Justice Stewart, I know pornography when I see it. Gladly, his voice has been mostly silenced, but the echos of the past are too often replayed. His opinions, unsupported by research, and evidently for sale to the highest bidder, continue to stigmatize patients with Ochoa's characterization of them as "illegitimate conscious malingerers and individuals with Münchausen’s syndrome."

Several rulings have directed that his testimony be discounted, as jurists, troubled by the lack of scientific foundation to Dr. Ochoa's ideas, and by the fact that someone called on to determine the presence or absence of CRPS had never, ever found the disease present, or issued an opinion in favor of the patient -- not once in hundreds of cases.

Ahem. Okay, so the man makes me nuts. I had rid myself of the Ochoa Plague largely by ignoring the citation of his contributions to medical bigotry. But as The Painful Jerks have become part of my everyday life, and as my doctors professed sympathy but little understanding, I found myself in the familiar position of having to do research in a subject far outside my area of expertise. Many of the papers on spasticity are written by academic researchers, not involved in the clinical management of CRPS, and uninterested in its exploitative judicial history. And so there he is again, The Turd, mocking me from the margins, quoted again in the text, even if just as an anachronistic oddity.

Baclofen worked for a period of time. It still works but just not well. Because I know that the Great Spasms can go on almost continually, I am grateful that Baclofen (or *something*) has reduced the incidence to just a few hours a day. Because I know that I can have both legs and both arms simultaneously flying through the air with the greatest of unease, I am grateful that baclofen (or *whatever*) has largely reduced that focus, most of the time, to one leg.

Is it really doing a darned thing? I don't know! And yet, like every day in recent memory, I am scheduled to take 60 milligrams of it, divided into 4 doses. It makes me loopy, dopey, but when I've stopped it, my subjective interpretation is that the spasticity is worse and more frequent.

Sometimes it is a funny annoyance and not so much painful as astonishing. You probably did not notice that I spoke of using a "spare" computer, a back-up laptop. The large mug of hot coffee with milk that my right hand jerked into the air last Wednesday has something to do with my current need for multiple machines. Sizzle::fry::Sizzle::fry

And Thursday, after two appointments and little sleep, Fred gifted me with pizza, double mushrooms, a wonderful treat that really hit the spot. I was dreaming of one of my favorite breakfasts, cold pizza and hot coffee, and heading to the kitchen to carefully wrap my leftover slices, when ka-blooey! The plate took off, launched like a freaking frisbee. My 4 slices landed upside down and were immediately subjected to fierce cat licking (else I'd have invented some sort of pizza sanitizer).

There have been instances of hot pots slung from stove top to floor, and a few unanticipated knife tricks. My legs have given out mid-trek to the bathroom and according to some legends, I appear to have kicked a few people.

I'm convinced I'm losing brain cells and plan to use the declining quality of these blog entries as proof.

Ha!

Part of that body of evidence? This video from last night, published below.  Clearly, my wayward brain is overloaded and misfiring, because it almost seems like my well-honed cinematic curiosity is now satisfied by the mere presence of one camera and one cat, taking improvisation all the way to the zoo, as it were.

I can match some of the tawnier and fluffier samples of fine feline fur found in my nasal passages this morning to the photogenic Buddy, a juvenile Maine Coon also known as The Freakishly Large Kitten.  He evidently shares my affection for yogurt. With his usual powers of concentration and his proven ability to stick his big little head into just about anything -- so long as food is his just reward -- Buddy goes after the few remaining molecules of peach yogurt with an enthusiasm that I deeply admire and vaguely remember from my own time among the living.

* 2 Corinthians 12: 7-10
Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. 8 Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. 9 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 10 That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

And... we're off!

How is it that hearing exactly what I expected to hear from the surgeon could depress me?  What is the point of even having expectations if they don't shield you from the negative effects of your own neurotransmitters?  Hmm?                              

Also, in case anyone had any lingering doubts, yes, pain is, indeed, subjective.

I recall this scenario having unfolded every time I've received the "we need to operate" response from ShoulderMan, a scenario that is now over the half-dozen mark.  By the time we are back home at The Manor, my pain levels rise to an obscene point, approaching the landmark "ten."  It honestly seems to hurt worse just because my excellent surgeon has opined that yes, surgery does look necessary.  That's nuts, makes no sense, and yet, is true.

We are going to proceed with the usual futility first, though:  Yes, another aspiration of the shoulder under fluoroscopy!  The eighth one.  May it be productive, because the first seven were not... Then, in 2 weeks, I will go back to hear how nothing continues to grow in the lab, and to finalize the scheduling for surgery.

At least I have an excellent excuse for bailing on the Wheelchair Negotiations for today.  The man handling my case is an idiot.  No, really, he is.  He also lies with excessive ease.  I don't know whether we are going to take our relationship to the next level of actually acquiring the new lightweight and speedy transport.

But, as I am trying to convince myself -- let that go until tomorrow.  I am spoiling for a fight, for anything that might distract me from the prospect of major surgery during the holidays, PICC lines and vancomycin (can't use the bleepety-bleep-bleep port installed in my chest wall for the post-op antibiotics), surgical cement spacers, and the subsequent surgery or surgeries to try and put in another prosthetic shoulder.

It's a darned good thing that The Nutcracker is such a piece of crap, both as music and as ballet -- because I am going to miss seeing it performed again this year!

That was supposed to be funny.

Fred has that deer caught in the headlights stare going on. Bless his heart, bless his bones.

The only good thing thus far today?  My surgeon just got back from Haiti, where things are, of course, really bad -- though he said things were more settled than they were immediately following the major quake, at least.  They desperately need orthopedic supplies -- crutches, walkers, canes, splints, slings, etc. -- and we have at our disposal an entire closet dedicated to the storage of such supplies.  It feels good to be able to put the stuff to some use, or it will, once Fred, Bianca, Sven, and I go over each item and refurbish things as best we can.  So that is one good thing for the day...

I just feel like weeping:  Therefore, let's post some cat videos!  If sending my orthopedic closet collection to Haiti and uploading a bunch of cute cat action doesn't dry my tears, what will?

First, we have Buddy in a Box.  Unfortunately, most of the footage of Buddy in a Box consists of no sign of Buddy but minute after minute of a mysteriously wiggling box.  Since he is more interested in me, for some reason, than his Bodacious Box, you lucked out this time, Beloved Readers!

Isn't it amazing how HUGE he has gotten, this freakishly large kitten that turned out to be a Maine Coon? Fred and I peer helplessly at one another and cry, "Who knew?" several times each day.

Next we have the Old Married Couple Series.  These are three videos of Dobby and Buddy, who suddenly have decided to promulgate peace, love, and understanding instead of trying to wipe each other from the face of the planet.  Okay, so Buddy is something of a recidivist, as he goes for Dobby's throat in the second video -- but he gets over the impulse and is soon right back to being a perversely large kitten, and all cuddly again in the third take.

As usual, please ignore the audio.  Seriously, it's embarrassing.

crps, in living color

I hate to contradict the evidence, but the visible CRPS-afflicted parts of my body are undergoing the usual seasonal shift from red CRPS to blue CRPS.  Though you are not likely to notice, this stuff not being the center of your umbilical vantage point, this also entails a move from a highly edematous state to one that is... well, less so.  Shoot, on very cold days, my hands and feet will be nothing short of shriveled.  My rings will fall off my fingers, that sort of change.

Speaking of rings, a nurse asked recently why I wore rings and a bracelet, given the pain and ultra-sensitivity in my hands and lower arms.  I don't always -- a few times per day, I will divest myself of all jewelry and hold my freed hands up into the air, provided the air is cool and calm.

I suppose I persist in wearing some jewelry for the same reasons that I continue to do dishes, use knives, and pet animals:  these are useful ways to claim occupational/physical therapy credits.  In fact, there is a standing order in our kitchen that I am to wash all of the dirty dishes, unless I specifically beg off.  [Begging off being on my mind due to the change in temperatures.  There is nothing quite so unpleasant, first thing in the morning, as the freezing, greasy water found in a sink full of dishes left "to soak" overnight.]

Early on in my experiences with physical therapy (the treatment modality with the most success in modifying CRPS, at least if begun in a timely fashion), I was introduced to the concept of stress loading, which incorporates the activities of scrubbing and carrying.  Beyond that, there were horrific attempts at desensitization, failures all.  It soon became something of a joke to me that we were paying actual money so that someone could supervise me while I scrubbed, and give hilariously imperious nods of approval over my carrying techniques.

Besides, with all of Marlinspike Hall standing at the ready, actual scrubbing and real carrying tasks were bountiful.

In other words, it isn't at all difficult to make daily tasks sufficiently mindful that they assume the place of physical and occupational therapy.  With every setback, strengthening, dexterity, and coordination work moved to the forefront.

Being a fairly simple-minded person, I succeed in tricking myself pretty easily.  For instance, Dobby the Runt and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten both thoroughly enjoy opening my closet door and climbing the shelves so as to shed on my clean clothes.  To keep them out, we could add a simple latch to the door... or I could artfully pile various hand weights at the bottom, on which humans and pets, alike, could trip, causing an ongoing collection of paint chips and ill will.  It's good for my arms to do the bending and lifting now required just to put away clean underwear.

Anyway... yes, rings, watches, bracelets all serve a therapeutic purpose, most days.  They're my secret desensitizers.  The warm sudsy water in the kitchen sink is my aquatic therapy.  General cleaning encompasses a well-thought out stress-loading program, in which scrubbing and carrying are accomplished by... scrubbing and carrying.

This morning's video update just seemed to cry out for some contrasting color, so I grabbed things at hand:  one of Hiroshige's sudden showers; a favorite glass vase (favored for its blue); rope; and a needle point placemat that Brother-Unit TW included as filler in one of his marvelous gift boxes (ergo, I mistakenly imbued the placemat with magic powers).  Like I said, though quite purplish/red right now, the extremities have begun the annual pilgrimage to the blue, cold, shriveled side of things.

For such is CRPS.

Soft Paw [with a side of Sweet Honey in the Rock]

All you need to know is that you get to see "more Buddy," and we'll be fine, you and I, youse guys and me.

Don't worry, as soon as the need for a bathroom assumes gigantonormous proportions, I will find a way to exit this wheelchair and knee-knobble to the loo.  But at the moment, my legs won't work and I am -- as the Bible might put it -- sore irritated.  Sore afraid.  Sore stuck.  Not to mention sore sore.

—adv
	archaic direly; sorely (now only in such phrases as sorepressed, sore afraid)
[Old English sār; related to Old Norse sārr, Old High German sēr, Gothic sair sore, Latin saevus angry]

Until then, it's cat videos and anything else that is both inane and distracting.  Oh, a new episode of Hoarders is on.  Be still my heart.  Quick, give me something to clean, a feline to brush, lint to pick, dust to scatter, a suspicion of dirt!  I bet this show has inspired a whole heck of a lot of cleaning in Amerika.

Okay, back to the subject at hand.  Mostly, that is Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten Recently Discovered to be of the Maine Coon Variety.

I've previously explained that he is trained to the command "Soft Paw," by necessity, as his natural Paw State is far from being one of squishy-soft, pastel-colored angelic intentions.  His paws will one day be registered lethal weapons.  To the immunosuppressed among us, they are killers right *now*!

So the big-little guy loves to play Fetch with his mice, and will in fact, bug the badinage right out of you until you acquiesce to his every freaking fetching ploy and demand.  Mwa ha ha!  Help!  

In order to give the Soft Paw command some currency in the World of Buddy, we train him through his love of Fetch.  In short, we do what all animal lovers/owners do but I am trying so hard not to think of how I need to peeeeeeeeeeeee but cannot get out of this magnificent red Pronto that I will expound and pound upon the least little detail just to get through one more blessed [dry] minute.

Oh dear God, I'm gonna die laughing, at least.  Fred just flew by, telling me, at a high rate of speed, that he discovered that Marmy Fluffy Butt has organized the entire Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall such that Dobby the Runt and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten are pooping in one litter box, and urinating in a second one.  Marmy herself?  She pees in a third litter box, and poops... well, at the moment, she is pooping, very neatly and discreetly, right next to the paper we put down for her by the back door.  Right... the back door leading to the Private Palatial Porch.  Making yet another delightful obstacle to my getting out that door into the fresh, pine-scented air.  Wait!  That was yesterday's rant!

Anyway, God bless Fred.  Because I am not supposed to dabble in things kitty-litter related.  Also, thank the dear Lord that Fred shares every toileting detail with me as I would otherwise be oblivious to that important part of the animals' lives.  Now I know what Dobby has been whining about -- Marmy has extended the web of her powerful influence to actually designating which waste receptacles are to be used for which waste.  

shiver::of::pure::terror 

Right.

Hmm.

So.

Ah, yes!  Soft Paws.  I was able to make two very short videos of Buddy's training.  As usual, what I recorded turned out to be aberrant from the norm.  Dobby has become jealous of the Big-Little Guy and so his pink nose turns up quite close to the camera every time.  He's a bit of a diva.  And Marmy even has decided that there must be something inherently rewarding about this camera business, but when she pops up (she's the one who always looks a little confused), that scares Buddy in the extreme.  Her terrorism of him, early and often, is now paying its dividends.  In one of these videos, he has turned to chase the beloved mouse, after successfully tapping my hand at the Soft Paw command, and then he FREEZES.  That would be because Marmy Fluffy Butt decided to appear, just out of camera range.  It is a testimonial to her ridiculous power that the kitten nearly ceases to breathe, holds his crouch, and -- though we cannot see them -- allows his pupils to madly dilate as he points like a Bracco Italiano after feathered game in old Lombardy.

I've come to dearly love Buddy's face.  He is so clueless, you might think.  You might even hold this wrongheaded opinion for six months or so, and who could blame you?  Because until you have the chance to watch his cagey self on video -- hitting rewind with frequency -- you are fooled by the vacant expression, the goofy grin.

He's sly, this one.

He has developed little tics as he plays Soft Paw Fetch.  He wants to NOT tap my hand.  Or if he gives in, and goes for a tap, he wants to claw me to death, just a little.  But then he won't get the mouse.  So he bobs and weaves, ducks his head, does a little rope-a-dope.  Oh Lord, I have to pee!

If you see Buddy tap my hand but not receive the Fetch reward of a Tossed Mouse, it's because he forgot the soft part of the command.  When that happens, he does sometimes have to do some Quality Control calibrations, the first of which is always to offer his head as a paw replacement.  This is terribly important to him, so I give him verbal praise, but repeat the request for a Soft Paw.  It's cool, watching him weigh how much he wants what, what he's willing to do, etcetera.

All right, that's it.  I'll be right back.  If I drive the wheelchair to the threshold of the bathroom door and then throw myself forward with all my might, I am bound to hit porcelain of some kind.  Wish me luck.  If I am not back in 10 minutes, please, would someone call Tante Louise?