Since I last wrote, my formerly obstructed and now poor UTI-inflamed cat turned my basement into Shark Week. He came home on Friday night having peed on his own at the vet's after they removed the catheter. Yay.

Friday night: happy

Saturday morning: happy

Saturday mid-morning: straining and crying. And LICKING LICKING LICKING. The vet closed at noon, so we got there as fast as we could -- surrounded by at least eleven dogs of various sizes lunging at one another while their owners feigned ignorance. The vet said he was okay, because at the time, he was prancing around, hopping on things, acting fine. 

fine, for like five minutes

Until we got him home and the vet closed.

Before I put him in the basement, he peed blood in five different rooms. Then when he was in the basement, he just let loose like Jackson Pollack. I couldn't even be upset about that, though, because watching him cry broke my heart into itty bitty little pieces.

Sunday: more of the same

On Sunday afternoon, the little angel went out with a friend and I dragged my PARKER CLEAVES manuscript downstairs to the plastic-covered couch from 1998 and sat down with a blanket. Kizzy was in my lap before I could even arrange myself. He was like a baby who didn't feel well and just wanted to be held. He slept on my legs for three hours until I could barely move, my legs were so stiff. I just kept thinking what if this is the last time? Most people's heads probably wouldn't go there, but most people haven't had our backstory with cats. I remember realizing it was the last time with Petunia and Buttonsworth and Bella as their eyes got hazier and hazier.

Last night drug on forever. This morning, we got the girl on the bus and stuffed Kizzy in the cat carrier and went straight to the vet. We'd both promised each other we weren't going to pour money all over this if it wasn't going to improve, but when we got there and Kizzy had already peed blood all over the carrier and the blanket and then, inside the room, the table and the sink -- all while looking at us with eyes perfectly clear and intelligent and not dead-looking -- we just agreed when the vet said he wanted to keep him overnight. I begged for stronger antibiotics and painkillers, which he is getting. 

So there he is, again, spending another night in the cat hospital. This time there is no catheter, but there is pain medication and steroid antibiotic and more of the prescription C/D food he has started eating at home. The vet warned us he wouldn't go from totally inflamed to normal in twenty-four hours, and the fact that he's peeing at all is good.

I drove back home and walked inside and hoped Sunday afternoon wasn't my last cuddle. I've been trying to practice denial all day -- some people are so good at that, and I am just not -- but it's not really working. I'm glad he's still alive, but I'm worried about what happens if he doesn't respond to the new antibiotics. It's all I can think about in the back of my mind while my brain processes emails and story ideas and headlines in the front. 

I hope that wasn't the last time. I do really appreciate everyone who shared their stories here or on BlogHer -- hearing that this has happened to other cats around this age who then went on to live years longer is really encouraging. I hope Kizzy gets to join that club soon.

When we were dealing with Petunia's diabetes diagnosis, my best friend told me about Ira Glass and his dog, Piney. I guess Ira's dog bites people and has crazy allergies -- he has to eat a different protein/starch combo every eight months until he gets allergic to it. Steph said she heard Ira interviewed on NPR, and he was talking about how taking care of Piney had kind of become his life.

Yesterday afternoon, I called the vet to check on Buttonsworth, who had been there all day getting enema after enema. The vet said the first one had worked, but nothing since then, and he was trying and trying but getting nothing, and the next step would be to put him under and, I don't know, dig it out of him, but that had risks, and he'd found some medicine, but it cost $60 a month and needed to be given three times a day, and there was really no guarantee it would work.

I started crying. I called Beloved. We talked about two shots a day and three pills a day that might not work and all the enemas and the fact that Buttonsworth had developed megacolon and it might just never work properly again, and I realized I was becoming like Ira Glass. I've been at the vet's office more times in the last month than the grocery store. I'm was watching Buttonsworth like a hawk. My anxiety is through the roof.

And I can't make him poop. At some point, you can become obsessed, and I was becoming obsessed, perhaps even to the detriment of poor Buttonsworth, who probably did not like all the enemas or the pain of constipation.

We made the decision not to even bring him home, because if we brought him home, I didn't know if I could bear to take him back. I called the vet back, told him to stop with the enemas, we were coming in to say goodbye.

I told the little angel, who had been prepared that this might happen. The child is growing very resilient to pet death, much more so than I have. We got in Vicki and drove to the vet's office. They brought out Buttonsworth, and the three of us covered his face in kisses and told him how much we loved him and how proud of him we were. Then we donated his insulin and syringes. Beloved and the little angel stopped for ice cream on the way home, even though we hadn't had dinner yet. I called my family and sobbed my way home. The little angel and I watched two episodes of Clean House. I had to go downstairs during book time because I couldn't stop crying. I looked at all my photos of Buttonsworth and asked myself how, again, I keep picking these sick cats? But as I looked at the pictures, I couldn't regret adopting him, even though the final total on this month was nearly a thousand dollars and he still died. He kept Beloved company during the months of unemployment. He taught Kizzy to sleep on the little angel's bed. He taught us to not be afraid of cat diabetes like we were before. He wagged his little Manx tail and rumblepurred and gave us so much love and happiness for the short four months that he was here.

So, farewell, Sir Charles Buttonsworth. We will miss you. And we are proud to say the day you died, we had finally stabilized your blood sugar. So in that we did not fail you.

Yesterday I documented our decision to treat Sir Charles Buttonsworth's diabetes on BlogHer.

There were requests for video of Kizzy's insanity. Happy Friday!

Me: "How far away is Cargo Largo? Because I need more of those between bath pet wipes and they're 50 cents there and $8.99 online."

Him: "Why not just use baby wipes?"

Me: "I was afraid they might be toxic to cats. Babies don't lick their own butts."

Him: "Remember Bella? Besides, if he could lick his own butt, you wouldn't have to use the baby wipes."

* Butt was clean in this pic.

** Thank God it doesn't happen every day.

*** It could be worse.

The little black cat started using his front paw again after twenty-four hours of solitary confinement in a room with low spaces.

He shot out the door the minute I opened it yesterday and now spends his moments torpedoing around the house, insane. We discovered he may be even younger than we thought, according to his growth plates.

That explains a lot.

---

Last night while we drove home from gymnastics, the fog was werewolf thick, and I could barely make out the headlights coming toward me.

This morning we woke up to deceptively warm air that spoke more of March than of January.

So I opened the window for the little black cat, and I saw his whole world change in an instant. Face pressed to the screen, whiskers blowing a bit in the breeze.

He didn't move for ten minutes.

I think this means thank you.

---

Last night, I discovered  THE OBVIOUS GAME is now on Amazon, though it isn't coming up normally in searches yet, which I hope is just because it's still in pre-order stage. This morning, Tracie Nall put up this guest post by me on the writing process, using Kindle for revision, StoryMill software and butts in chairs. Thank you, Tracie!

Last Thursday, Petunia passed away. I was planning to send the little angel to school and then pick her up and go to shelters to look for a new cat, but when she said goodbye to Petunia she was crying too hard to speak, and then so was I, and we agreed she would stay home so I could take her to shelters over lunch thanks to my extremely empathetic and understanding managers. Beloved, who had the job of taking Petunia to be put down, deferred this adventure in favor of jobhunting, because of course we need all the bad things to stop as soon as possible, and all I want for Christmas is a two-income household.

The little angel and I cried our way through the first several hours of the day. When I started crying on my co-worker during an editorial meeting, I said enough is enough. I packed up the little angel, a list of shelters and a large and small cat carrier (the small one is a bag that some cats refuse to enter) and off we went.

The first shelter was actually a vet. All four kitties were adorable and declawed, but there wasn't that pang of connection we were hoping for. The second shelter I had never heard of and none of the information on the website for the individual cats sounded very encouraging -- I like to have the "housetrained" box checked even for cats. It just makes me feel better. But when we got to the Kansas City Pet Project shelter, there was a sign outside that said "Preowned Cats," and I was encouraged.

In we went. The cat room was small and packed with floor-to-ceiling cages and another big cage in the middle. I was overwhelmed. I started chatting with the cat ladies, who were beyond awesome, and wandering around the room opening cages and searching for our cat, all the while holding back tears because I didn't want a new cat, I wanted PETUNIA.

Until I saw him. Sir Charles Buttonsworth. A sixteen-pound Manx with facial markings that look like a mustache. Who is allergic to seafood.

Sir Charles Buttonsworth

Against my better judgment, I hefted Sir Buttonsworth out of his cage. (There is no picking him up, there is only hefting him.) He turned his head to look at me. His face is long and he always looks sad, even when he is purring his ass off, which is all the time, because nothing bothers this cat. I carried him around the cat room, trying to interest the little angel in him, but she was looking at all the cute, perky, kitten-like and infinitely more sensible cats.

I talked to the cat lady. Sir Buttonsworth is declawed. But he needs special food. And clumping litter, because the last person who adopted him brought him back because he pooped outside the box without clumping litter. And because he was farting, probably because he was eating seafood. And by the way, Sir Buttonsworth takes shits like a human, just so you know.

And they weren't exactly sure how old he was.

I knew I was going to go all Island of Misfit Cats and adopt him. So I deferred from The Plan, which was to get only one cat -- unless we found two that had to be adopted out together -- and asked if the cat ladies through Sir Buttonsworth would be okay with a friend.

"If you're looking for a declawed cat, you might like Kismet," she said, and pulled out an overgrown kitten with huge eyes who always looks surprised.

Kismet, who has become Kizzy, because he's spazzy and not because of Roots

Kismet snuggled up immediately in the little angel's arms and is only 20 months old. Would they get along? The cat ladies were so excited someone might be taking Buttonsworth that they immediately put us in the break room with Sir Buttonsworth and Kizzy. They pretty much ignored each other and hung out. I asked lots of questions about what might happened if they started attacking each other and was assured they would work with me if that happened.

I thought about it for approximately 30 seconds. Kizzy was the insurance policy against an overweight and maybe middle-aged Manx with digestive problems that I could not leave behind. And also very cute. And also more the personality the little angel really wanted -- a pet who would play with her.

Every decision this time was made with the little angel in mind. I know she always wished for a closer relationship with Petunia, who really preferred quieter adults. With all the neighbor kids and friends in our house all the time, I really wanted a cat who would not freak if a strange child reached for its face.

So we waited forever for Kizzy to be chipped and Sir Buttonsworth's food type to be documented. Then we stuffed the cats in the two carriers and headed out to Vicki the convertible. We just barely fit the big carrier in the backseat.

As we drove away, I realized I had to go buy the special food before we went home, as well as another litter box. The cats were not happy. They made pathetic meowing sounds all the way to Petsmart, and I saw my hands shaking on the steering wheel and realized my blood sugar was tanking out since I hadn't eaten all day. And we had ten minutes before my next conference call.

We jogged around Petsmart looking for this special food, which the shelter thought didn't require a prescription but both required a prescription yet didn't exist on the Petsmart shelves. I bought the litter boxes and litter, called my vet to see if they carried Science Diet, and hurtled my way back to the car to hop on my conference call.

At this point, we'd been driving around for about 30 minutes and were 15 minutes from the vet.

I was making good on the conference call, having looked at the comps while waiting at the shelter, and I was totally congratulating myself on my multi-tasking and imagining all the food I would eat when I got home when I recognized the unmistakable smell of cat shit wafting from my backseat.

I muted my phone.

"Did someone ... poop?" I asked.

The little angel just pointed at Sir Buttonsworth's cage, her face a mask of shock.

I felt the stress of the day quadruple. I was driving around the greater Kansas City metro during the workday and during a conference call with a child who should be in school and two strange cats, one of which had just shit in his carrier.

I hung up the phone, rolled down the windows, and stepped on the gas.

When we got to the vet, I told the little angel to stay in the car with Kismet while I tried to get the food and get the poop out of Sir Buttonsworth's cage.

As I was trying to explain all this to the receptionist at the vet, she told me Science Diet B/D doesn't exist for cats.

I lost my mind. Tears were pouring down my face, and I was telling her about the poop, and she told me I would need a prescription but the vet would have to see the cat for that and then I was mumbling about my husband being unemployed and money being tight and Petunia being put down at this very vet this morning and how I hadn't eaten yet and my daughter was in the car with yet another cat and this kind vet came out of the back and told me new cat visits were free and please come in the room and she'd take care of the poop. So I went and got the little angel and Kizzy and we went in the room and let the cats out and then I started worrying they would hate each other but they didn't and the receptionist came and took away the poop and hosed out the carrier and someone else told me there was free biscotti in the front by the coffee.

And I texted my editor that my new cat shit in the car, because I'd just bailed out of a conference call with no explanation. And bless Julie's soul, that is enough of an explanation for her.

So the cats checked out, and the vet called the shelter, and we think we have the right kind of food (though I don't know, because Sir Buttonsworth has yacked five times in the past two days and the shelter is closed today).

So finally we got the cats back in the car and home and Beloved told me I was fired for bringing home two unrelated cats, but it's okay because he has since fallen in love with both of them, even Kizzy who keeps climbing the bookcases and who has a terrible cold and needs to go back to the shelter vet tomorrow because if he sneezes in my face again I will stick him outside for the squirrels.

But I love him.

So I made some soup and went back to work and managed to pull off a few more things and my managers were so great and everyone wanted to see pictures because they know how much I loved Petunia and how incredibly stressful losing a cat is normally and then on top of a really stressful holiday season with everything that's gone on and I might have a teensy tiny problem with anxiety in the first place.

That night, the little angel went to bed with not one but two cats on her bed and woke up with Kizzy on her pillow, and she is over the moon with these cats. And even though we still have to work out the transition and the sneezing the barfing, I am, too, even though if I let myself look at Petunia's chair I am still sad.

But as the days pass and the boys get more comfortable here, I know I will grow to love them dearly, too, and it feels very good to have let not one but two cats win the Holiday Cat Lottery to come live at Chateau Travolta with Beloved, the little angel, me, Charlie and Sebastian the hermit crabs and Simon the fish. And we pray at night that Petunia is easing into her new apartment in cat heaven with a full box of mouse popsicles and Bella and Sybil down the hall.

PS: The vet must think I am INSANE.

I can't believe it's happened again. It's been just three years since Bella the Monster-Eating Cat died of acute kidney failure, and now our sweet Toonsie is gone, too.

At the beginning of this week, we noticed she was having trouble making jumps she could normally hit with no problem. Beloved took her to the vet, where they drew blood, clipped her toenails and watched her freak out so bad she had to wear the muzzle party hat, which she's never had to do before at the new vet. I stared at her and thought scared thoughts and Googled all the things that could be wrong, and deep in my heart I knew it was one of those things, because arthritis didn't explain the way she was looking at me, that way that says something is very, very wrong.

After two days of waiting, we called the vet, who had just picked up the phone to call us. He said the labs were normal except for one thing: her blood glucose levels. They were almost five times normal. Then he started talking about how to treat it she would need shots twice a day for the rest of her life, which would mean she'd need to be boarded every time we go to visit family, and the person who watched the cat who hisses and tries to bite anyone in a boarding/vet situation would have to give her two shots a day. And to figure out the right dose of insulin, she'd need to spend three days in the hospital. The cat who wears a party hat to get a vaccine would be in a hospital, away from us, getting lots of shots, for three days.

I asked the vet if he could estimate a ballpark of what keeping a diabetic Petunia alive would cost monthly because it seemed like an adult thing to do, and he said he'd call me back. I hung up the phone and started sobbing, scaring Beloved, who was at home looking for a job.

When the vet called back and outlined more clearly what would need to be done and how very far diabetic Petunia had become, I had to hand the phone to Beloved because I couldn't make words come out around the sobs. It was such a shock. It's always such a shock. This is the third time in five years I've been shocked like this.

At first I said it was totally manageable, totally doable. Then I started thinking through how Petunia would feel about hospitalization and boarding and daily shots, and how I wouldn't be able to explain to her that the person she loved most was sticking her every day for a good reason. She hadn't been able to explain to me something was wrong. She still purred and talked to me every time I made eye contact. Cats are notoriously good at hiding illness.

I pictured her in a hospital, being stuck for three days, and how miserable she would be. And I wasn't even sure if it would work, but I know once you take that step of extreme measures with a pet, it's very hard to stop. I gave Sybil thyroid pills every day for years and we sacrificed a mattress to her urinary tract issues.

I knew we weren't going to do it. The vet said if we weren't going to do it, we should put her down immediately, because she could go downhill very quickly. Already in the two days between when we took her to the vet and when he called she'd begun resisting being held and drinking entire bowls of water.

The little angel initially didn't react when we told her, but then, slowly, it began to sink in, and she cried with me. She couldn't go to school yesterday, and I couldn't stop crying, and so eventually I took a break and she and I drove to shelters after Beloved made the final drive with Petunia. He said he stayed as long as he could stand to breathe around the lump in his throat.

We got Petunia the day after Bella died, and this time, we didn't even wait one day. When it comes to pets, we adopt again immediately. Even though a new pet can't fill the void left by an old pet, a purring furrball salves many wounds, and I find my tears are best absorbed by fresh furr.

The tale of getting our new cats -- yes, we got two -- is actually funny, and I just can't summon the funny right now. Maybe tomorrow. But for now, I just want to thank everyone who reached out via email or Twitter or the phone with consolation. Pets are such outlets for our emotions, and Petunia got me through so many hard times. She's been my co-worker these past three years so I never felt lonely when working from home. She was hard to explain people and often misunderstood because she presented as cranky to anyone who didn't spend a significant amount of time with her. Vets hated her, boarding employees shrank from her, and she was at Wayside Waifs for nine months in a room by herself because she was the unadoptable cat who morphed into a crazy affection lap cat for Beloved and me and occasionally the little angel.

I'm glad we made the decision to put her down before she lost use of her legs. She drank two bowls of water the night before we took her in, and the vet told us she was pretty much starving because she couldn't process her food correctly. I'm glad we adopted her, even though she could be a trying cat any time we had to take her somewhere or when people came to visit with small kids. And she barfed everywhere, all the time, so much that we bought two separate steam vacuums to deal with it.

But that never mattered when she did this. Goodnight, Toonsie. I hope you are enjoying the mouse popsicles with Sybil, King and Bella in cat heaven.

Petunia Cookie Dough

2004-2012

Bella Simone

2002-2009

Sybil Louise

1989 -- 2007

And it begins again.

My cat, Petunia, is thought the world over to be a hellcat. When you ask my niece what Petunia says, she says "HISS." The neighbor girl who desperately wants a cat is scared of Petunia. And the last vet we had saw Petunia as a personal challenge, a mustang to be broken, a spirit to crush. 

Petunia, at home, looks more like this.

But when we went to our old vet, Petunia would barely be out of her travel carrier before she transformed into a flat-eared, fanged, hissing, spitting, malevolent force of nature capable of stealing your breath and banishing you to the land of lost souls. And that sometimes could occur even in the lobby. After two or three rounds of this, the vet suggested we tranq her before bringing her in.

See those pupils?

After the last visit last December in which Petunia was getting her three teeth cleaned (she had to have one canine pulled when we adopted her because of tooth decay) and that little procedure took twelve hours, I called last straw. I couldn't take it anymore. I know Petunia wasn't being abused, but the mental anguish I was going through seeing her so revved up just broke me. I swore never again would Petunia grace the threshhold of what normally looks like a major pet big box store.

And then I put it out of my mind.

This weekend, we hosted Easter for my parents and sister. Somewhere along the line, Petunia ate something she shouldn't have (we can be messy eaters, especially a certain redheaded someone who had a chocolate birthday cake with pink icing that can be seen from outer space) and commenced barfing last night. She's thrown up six times in the past 24 hours, all, of course, on the carpet.

This morning, I told Beloved I was going to do it: I was going to take her to a new vet.

With great apprehension, I stuffed her in her carrier and drove to the new vet. She gurgled the whole way there with unhappiness. I explained to the receptionist that she could morph from sweet baby girl into Satan's spawn in nanoseconds despite having no front claws and only three teeth. They took note.

Into the exam room we went. It had a window, and Petunia and I spent several minutes watching a robin try to brain itself against the glass for no apparent reason.

The vet walked in. I went over again with her that she might want to don a flak jacket. 

She opened the bag. 

She pulled out Petunia.

She palpitated Petunia's neck. She rubbed Petunia's belly.

Petunia meowed in annoyance.

She held Petunia and talked to me for like seven minutes and only at that point did Petunia hiss a tiny bit with impatience.

The vet told me she was going to take Petunia in the back and give her an anti-nausea shot after I mentioned I'd seen her sniffing at some chocolate cake crumbs before I could sweep them away. She told me she would not hurt Petunia but she would restrain her if needed, and then she took her into the back. I heard Petunia meowing and meowing, but none of the gutteral underworld yowls came from the back. There was also no hissing.

All the sudden, the vet was back putting Petunia in her carrier.

And it was over.

Now, does this mean Petunia won't grow to hate this vet, too? Jury's out. However, I'm absolutely kicking myself for allowing a wellness plan to keep me at the old vet for so long. Breaking up with a vet is like breaking up with a stylist, and when this new vet called the old vet to get Petunia's records faxed over, I felt a little like hiding under the steel table lest they see me through the phone.

As I type this, Petunia is winding around my ankles, begging for food, because she can't have anything to eat or drink for twelve hours, and I'm not going to give in because $57, an hour of my time and at least three cups of adrenaline are not going to be wasted just because she is temporarily thirsty and hungry.

This whole adventure just goes to show rule 1 of catdom: HOLD GRUDGES FOREVER.

Sorry, old vet. Petunia clearly just had your number.

I knew something was fishy the moment she approached me. She NEVER sits on the couch in the morning. She's always running this way and that, muttering "LATE! LATE!" even when she works from home in that stupid leather chair I can't fit into behind her. (I have tried. Nonadjustable arms.)

But she patted the seat beside her, all nice and cooing, and I, like an idiot, walked right into it. She grabbed me and he held open some sort of gauche gym-bag-looking-wannabe-designer-cat-bag thing. He stuffed me in headfirst. I was so totally pissed. HISS.

I will wait until they sleep. Then I will sit on their chests and breathe menacing breaths until they wake up.

Then I will wait for them to fall asleep and DO IT AGAIN.

She drove me to the vet and left me there for five hours. WITH OTHER ANIMALS. I hate other animals.  And she should never leave me like that.

Because maybe. Just maybe? I was a little bit scared.

HISS.

Then the stupid vet said something about "fecal test" and also told me I have a cavity and have to have a tooth extracted AT A LATER DATE. Which means I HAVE TO COME BACK.

But next time ... next time, I will see her coming.

Fuck you.