Bitey is still boarding at the local vet. I took him there Thursday morning when his lethargy and misery at home became more than I could bear. It turned out his bladder was rock hard and full of pee. He has spent the last three days there having his bladder "expressed." This is when the vet squeezes Bitey in a way that make the pee shoot out of him like a water gun. The cat doesn't like it, but it's amazing to watch (and better than a catheter!) The vet can actually aim the stream of urine into a garbage can.
Bitey also got a steroid shot, which was the only thing that helped him feel better last time. He still can't walk on his hind legs, but he is way more alert and doesn't howl when you pick him up. Of all the sick cats and dogs in the vet's ICU, Bitey's eyes are the most alert. On second thought, he may be tied with the young "leopard twins." These two tawny siblings have beautiful black spots, and each is wearing a goofy white collar, which only accentuates the ill intent in their eyes.
Consistent with all the hospitals he's stayed at these last two weeks, the staff loves him. I don't just make this up. From the local clinic to the super fancy West LA surgical center, doctors, nurses, and lab techs alike tell me how much they adore my Bitey. "He's so friendly, so loving," they say. "At first I was afraid because of his name, but he's never bit me once!"
It makes me feel a little better when I hear that, because they understand why I would put so much money into these ridiculously pricey tests. It also helps to know that while he is locked up in a metal cage, miles from home, he is surrounded by people who like him. I know I always try harder for the people I like.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Love and Cats
An affectionate cat is a rarity. Cats are often guarded, standoff-ish and occasionally borderline psychotic. They value their personal space, and let you know it (Hello Babalu!) This doesn't stop their owners from loving them, in fact it often increases the significance when this kind of cat rubs against your leg, or lets you scratch him behind the ears.
From his first night with us, Bitey was different. When you sit on the sofa, resting your forearm on the cushion where he's sitting, Bitey will reach out and delicately put his paw on your arm, just to let you know he's there, and you're his.
Bitey spoons. Seriously. If you are curled up on your side in bed, he likes to curl right up next to your chest and purr. He even lets you tuck your arm around him and hold him like a teddy bear.
Bitey craves human attention. Like a dog. If you are reading, Bitey will jump up on the bed and settle all sixteen pounds of himself right in front of your book. Then he will look at you, victorious and unashamed. He also can detect "fake reading"-- a useless attempt to lure the cat off the person who is desperately trying to read the last chapter of a Stephen King novel.
I wonder why Bitey is so loving and personable. Sometimes I think his time on the streets frightened him so much that close contact with humans makes him feel safe. But everyone's seen "domesticated" street cats before, and very few of them will allow you to nuzzle their nose with yours without taking a swipe.
Then I thought it was because we found him so young. He was just a baby, less than four months old, hardly enough time to develop into a hardened kitty orphan. But some cats can be born into the most secure environments, stay with their mothers forever and end up as complete kitty jerks.
When we found out about Bitey's condition, I had a thought. Is it possible that somewhere inside him, Bitey senses his life could be very short? Does he shine so brightly because he fears the light will go out too soon? Or am I just imposing bad poetry on my genial cat because I fear losing him so much?
Perhaps, despite all this lovey mumbo jumbo, the answer is simple. Bitey loves us because we feed him.
From his first night with us, Bitey was different. When you sit on the sofa, resting your forearm on the cushion where he's sitting, Bitey will reach out and delicately put his paw on your arm, just to let you know he's there, and you're his.
Bitey spoons. Seriously. If you are curled up on your side in bed, he likes to curl right up next to your chest and purr. He even lets you tuck your arm around him and hold him like a teddy bear.
Bitey craves human attention. Like a dog. If you are reading, Bitey will jump up on the bed and settle all sixteen pounds of himself right in front of your book. Then he will look at you, victorious and unashamed. He also can detect "fake reading"-- a useless attempt to lure the cat off the person who is desperately trying to read the last chapter of a Stephen King novel.
I wonder why Bitey is so loving and personable. Sometimes I think his time on the streets frightened him so much that close contact with humans makes him feel safe. But everyone's seen "domesticated" street cats before, and very few of them will allow you to nuzzle their nose with yours without taking a swipe.
Then I thought it was because we found him so young. He was just a baby, less than four months old, hardly enough time to develop into a hardened kitty orphan. But some cats can be born into the most secure environments, stay with their mothers forever and end up as complete kitty jerks.
When we found out about Bitey's condition, I had a thought. Is it possible that somewhere inside him, Bitey senses his life could be very short? Does he shine so brightly because he fears the light will go out too soon? Or am I just imposing bad poetry on my genial cat because I fear losing him so much?
Perhaps, despite all this lovey mumbo jumbo, the answer is simple. Bitey loves us because we feed him.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Tests and possible diagnoses
Bitey has had:
An X-ray, several blood tests, a spinal tap, a myelogram, and a CT scan. He has been tested for cryptococcus (negative) and toxoplasmosis (still waiting). None of these tests have been conclusive, but they are still working with several possible diagnoses.
Because Bitey is FeLV+, Feline Lymphoma is at the top of their list.
Then there is Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP), which according to the vets, has no real treatment and no cure.
It could still be toxoplasmosis
or a simple blood clot in the spine.
Next up: MRI
I would give my left pinky toe for a diagnosis, no matter how grim. Not knowing really sucks.
An X-ray, several blood tests, a spinal tap, a myelogram, and a CT scan. He has been tested for cryptococcus (negative) and toxoplasmosis (still waiting). None of these tests have been conclusive, but they are still working with several possible diagnoses.
Because Bitey is FeLV+, Feline Lymphoma is at the top of their list.
Then there is Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP), which according to the vets, has no real treatment and no cure.
It could still be toxoplasmosis
or a simple blood clot in the spine.
Next up: MRI
I would give my left pinky toe for a diagnosis, no matter how grim. Not knowing really sucks.
The chain of events
Here's the play by play:
Prologue, late 2005: Bitey begins to hesitate before jumping up onto the kitchen counter, where he is fed twice a day. At 16 lbs, Bitey is a bit of a porker, so this hesitation seems natural. Sometimes he tries and fails, which is humiliating for him, but at the time, amusing to us. Little do we know. Proving that he is indeed a true member of my family, his desire to eat eventually overcomes any hesitation.
Thursday, February 9th, 2006:
During one of his outdoor field trips, Bitey falls out of the passion fruit tree. It's only about a four foot drop, but he doesn't twist, and lands on the brick pathway, squarely on his spine. He shakes it off, and seems fine.
Saturday, February 11th, 2006:
Bitey is hiding under the bed, in his sick place. The sick place is a rolling suitcase under our bed. He curls up on top, and if you need to see him, you roll him out like a drawer in a filing cabinet.
He howls when I pick him up. We take him to the vet, who thinks it could be bruising from the fall. He gives Bitey kitty aspirin, and a shot of cortisone.
Week of February 13th:
Bitey improves dramatically, so much so that by Wednesday he is jumping up on the bed and the kitchen counter.
Thursday, February 16th:
The cortisone begins to wear off. Bitey regains stiffness. This gets worse each day.
Saturday, February 18th:
When I wake up to feed Bitey, he is dragging one leg behind him. But he eats. I run an errand. When I come back, he is in the sick place again. When I pull him out, he tries to walk. Now both legs are paralyzed and he is dragging his whole lower body around using only his front paws. It is the most pathetic thing I have seen in a long time.
I call our vet, but he is booked solid. We are referred to an animal emergenecy hospital down Santa Monica Blvd.
I have never before advanced to this level of cat care. At our vet you make an appointment, you wait for a while when you arrive, then you go in with the cat, get the shots and get out.
In kitty hospitals, you walk in the door, hand over your cat, still in the travel bag, and they whisk him away. Then later, the doctor calls you in to a "family room", tells you the bad news and charges you $75 dollars for the expedited consult.
In our case, the doctor says: "I squeezed Bitey's paw hard, but there is no indication that he felt any pain." Then he says "I'm not even going to waste your time here" and sends us further west down Santa Monica to a veterinary surgical center. More disturbingly, the doctor waives his fee. I guess he knew what was coming.
We arrive at the Surgical Center and Bitey is again whisked away. We are invited into another "family room." A veterinary surgeon speaks with us. She explains the possible diagnoses (more on that later), gauges our willingness to pay for expensive tests, then admits our cat.
Tuesday, February 21st:
We have visted Bitey every day since his admittance. The wonderful surgeons have run every test they can think of. A battery of tests has show that Bitey has a blockage in or around his spine that is pressing on his nerves and causing the paralysis. But no one can pin down a cause.
They make us an appointment to see a kitty neurologist. In Orange County. Southern Orange County. Far from Hollywood. Bitey seems to have improved. He now has some use of his back legs, and can walk, tentatively, around the family room. I pay $2700 dollars and take Bitey home to his new cage. Which he hates. I find this encouraging.
Wednesday February 22nd:
Bitey wakes up paralyzed again. I put him in his case and take him to the O.C. for his appointment. It's an hour drive. He is disturbingly quiet along the way. Walking into the kitty neurologist's office, I cannot resist the temptation to say, "Welcome to the O.C., bitch." A woman I did not know was behind me says, "hmph."
The lovely kitty neurologist does some visual tests, but cannot find the problem. She suggests an MRI. That costs $1200 dollars. I wince, and schedule the MRI.
I take Bitey home. He is sluggish and prefers to lie in the cage he so desperately tried to head butt his way out of the night before.
I apply for a no-interest platinum card.
Thursday February 23rd (TMI ALERT)
230am. I awake to a gross noise and a bad smell. I find Bitey sacked out on the bathroom mat. He is covered in shit. But I am awed by the fact that he has dragged his (literally) paralyzed ass from his cage into the bathroom and made it to the litter in time. That's class. I spend an hour cleaning him up, thinking grim thoughts about his quality of life.
Later that morning, he is in so much pain that I take another day off from work and take him to our regular vet. The vet finds that Bitey's bladder is dangerously full. He admits Bitey into his care and give him another shot of cortisone. And that's where I visited him tonight.
Friday, February 24th
While he still cannot walk on his hind legs, Bitey is more alert, and clearly in less pain. The vet and his staff are emptying his bladder for him. If he can manage to do this on his own, he can come home. Otherwise he will be a guest at the vet's for an undetermined amount of time, at least until the MRI, possibly longer.
Prologue, late 2005: Bitey begins to hesitate before jumping up onto the kitchen counter, where he is fed twice a day. At 16 lbs, Bitey is a bit of a porker, so this hesitation seems natural. Sometimes he tries and fails, which is humiliating for him, but at the time, amusing to us. Little do we know. Proving that he is indeed a true member of my family, his desire to eat eventually overcomes any hesitation.
Thursday, February 9th, 2006:
During one of his outdoor field trips, Bitey falls out of the passion fruit tree. It's only about a four foot drop, but he doesn't twist, and lands on the brick pathway, squarely on his spine. He shakes it off, and seems fine.
Saturday, February 11th, 2006:
Bitey is hiding under the bed, in his sick place. The sick place is a rolling suitcase under our bed. He curls up on top, and if you need to see him, you roll him out like a drawer in a filing cabinet.
He howls when I pick him up. We take him to the vet, who thinks it could be bruising from the fall. He gives Bitey kitty aspirin, and a shot of cortisone.
Week of February 13th:
Bitey improves dramatically, so much so that by Wednesday he is jumping up on the bed and the kitchen counter.
Thursday, February 16th:
The cortisone begins to wear off. Bitey regains stiffness. This gets worse each day.
Saturday, February 18th:
When I wake up to feed Bitey, he is dragging one leg behind him. But he eats. I run an errand. When I come back, he is in the sick place again. When I pull him out, he tries to walk. Now both legs are paralyzed and he is dragging his whole lower body around using only his front paws. It is the most pathetic thing I have seen in a long time.
I call our vet, but he is booked solid. We are referred to an animal emergenecy hospital down Santa Monica Blvd.
I have never before advanced to this level of cat care. At our vet you make an appointment, you wait for a while when you arrive, then you go in with the cat, get the shots and get out.
In kitty hospitals, you walk in the door, hand over your cat, still in the travel bag, and they whisk him away. Then later, the doctor calls you in to a "family room", tells you the bad news and charges you $75 dollars for the expedited consult.
In our case, the doctor says: "I squeezed Bitey's paw hard, but there is no indication that he felt any pain." Then he says "I'm not even going to waste your time here" and sends us further west down Santa Monica to a veterinary surgical center. More disturbingly, the doctor waives his fee. I guess he knew what was coming.
We arrive at the Surgical Center and Bitey is again whisked away. We are invited into another "family room." A veterinary surgeon speaks with us. She explains the possible diagnoses (more on that later), gauges our willingness to pay for expensive tests, then admits our cat.
Tuesday, February 21st:
We have visted Bitey every day since his admittance. The wonderful surgeons have run every test they can think of. A battery of tests has show that Bitey has a blockage in or around his spine that is pressing on his nerves and causing the paralysis. But no one can pin down a cause.
They make us an appointment to see a kitty neurologist. In Orange County. Southern Orange County. Far from Hollywood. Bitey seems to have improved. He now has some use of his back legs, and can walk, tentatively, around the family room. I pay $2700 dollars and take Bitey home to his new cage. Which he hates. I find this encouraging.
Wednesday February 22nd:
Bitey wakes up paralyzed again. I put him in his case and take him to the O.C. for his appointment. It's an hour drive. He is disturbingly quiet along the way. Walking into the kitty neurologist's office, I cannot resist the temptation to say, "Welcome to the O.C., bitch." A woman I did not know was behind me says, "hmph."
The lovely kitty neurologist does some visual tests, but cannot find the problem. She suggests an MRI. That costs $1200 dollars. I wince, and schedule the MRI.
I take Bitey home. He is sluggish and prefers to lie in the cage he so desperately tried to head butt his way out of the night before.
I apply for a no-interest platinum card.
Thursday February 23rd (TMI ALERT)
230am. I awake to a gross noise and a bad smell. I find Bitey sacked out on the bathroom mat. He is covered in shit. But I am awed by the fact that he has dragged his (literally) paralyzed ass from his cage into the bathroom and made it to the litter in time. That's class. I spend an hour cleaning him up, thinking grim thoughts about his quality of life.
Later that morning, he is in so much pain that I take another day off from work and take him to our regular vet. The vet finds that Bitey's bladder is dangerously full. He admits Bitey into his care and give him another shot of cortisone. And that's where I visited him tonight.
Friday, February 24th
While he still cannot walk on his hind legs, Bitey is more alert, and clearly in less pain. The vet and his staff are emptying his bladder for him. If he can manage to do this on his own, he can come home. Otherwise he will be a guest at the vet's for an undetermined amount of time, at least until the MRI, possibly longer.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Four Years
We got four healthy years.
Four years in which Bitey went from starving baby to fat-n-happy adolescent. When we found him you could hold Bitey in the palm of your hand, now he measures almost three feet fully extended. (Should have known from the ears). From 3.6 lbs to 16, which, given his continuing preference to sleep above my head, left me with less and less pillow each year.
But I didn't mind. Because Bitey was one of those cats.
Two years after we found Bitey I left my West Hollywood starter apartment, the kind people who know better don't rent.
A mild digression: The apartment complex I lived in was three houses down from Santa Monica Blvd, and the club kids parked on my street, peed in my driveway and held drunken screaming matches under my streetlight. The bedrooms had tan carpets, tan walls, and tan plastic blinds on the plate glass windows. But it was the first apartment I ever rented in my own name, and I loved it.
But my roomie, Single Blonde Female, finally jumped the sanity cliff, and made our home a war zone. She banned my boyfriend from the apartment. The noise from the construction of new condos across the street was threatening my own mental health. The landlord was closing in on my illegal feline...and the beat goes on.
Lying awake at night, I pictured my perfect sanctuary. It would be a house, a tiny one, with a tiny garden, and maybe a garage. There would be flowers, and quiet, and privacy.
This dream kept me sane through uncertain times. And then, through a friend, I heard of a place for rent. It was way too expensive for one person, but I took a look, just to see. It was a tiny one-bedroom house in Hollywood, with a garden. And a garage. And it was so very quiet. Standing in the garden, staring at the long strands of bouganveilla growing from a thicket that covered the back wall, I knew. This was the place I had dreamed of.
I moved in in October of 2003, and ate pasta and peanut butter for a few months, until Boyfriend became Living Together Guy in January of 2004.
The garden, with its five magnificent fruit trees (orange, lime, fig, peach, passion fruit) presented a Bitey dilemma. FeLV cats cannot go outside, but you tell that to the feline love of your life who is staring longingly at grass he can't roll around in. After discussions with several vets, we decided to allow Bitey supervised visits to his own garden.
So two more years passed.
On Saturday, February 18th 2006, I woke up and went out to run errands. When I fed Bitey he was favoring one of his hind legs. When I came back, he unable to use either of his hind legs. He was paralyzed from the lower spine down.
Anyway, that's about all I have the heart for tonight. As of tonight, Bitey is staying with our local vet, because he cannot (TMI ALERT) evacuate on his own. We miss him. Stay tuned. j
Four years in which Bitey went from starving baby to fat-n-happy adolescent. When we found him you could hold Bitey in the palm of your hand, now he measures almost three feet fully extended. (Should have known from the ears). From 3.6 lbs to 16, which, given his continuing preference to sleep above my head, left me with less and less pillow each year.
But I didn't mind. Because Bitey was one of those cats.
Two years after we found Bitey I left my West Hollywood starter apartment, the kind people who know better don't rent.
A mild digression: The apartment complex I lived in was three houses down from Santa Monica Blvd, and the club kids parked on my street, peed in my driveway and held drunken screaming matches under my streetlight. The bedrooms had tan carpets, tan walls, and tan plastic blinds on the plate glass windows. But it was the first apartment I ever rented in my own name, and I loved it.
But my roomie, Single Blonde Female, finally jumped the sanity cliff, and made our home a war zone. She banned my boyfriend from the apartment. The noise from the construction of new condos across the street was threatening my own mental health. The landlord was closing in on my illegal feline...and the beat goes on.
Lying awake at night, I pictured my perfect sanctuary. It would be a house, a tiny one, with a tiny garden, and maybe a garage. There would be flowers, and quiet, and privacy.
This dream kept me sane through uncertain times. And then, through a friend, I heard of a place for rent. It was way too expensive for one person, but I took a look, just to see. It was a tiny one-bedroom house in Hollywood, with a garden. And a garage. And it was so very quiet. Standing in the garden, staring at the long strands of bouganveilla growing from a thicket that covered the back wall, I knew. This was the place I had dreamed of.
I moved in in October of 2003, and ate pasta and peanut butter for a few months, until Boyfriend became Living Together Guy in January of 2004. The garden, with its five magnificent fruit trees (orange, lime, fig, peach, passion fruit) presented a Bitey dilemma. FeLV cats cannot go outside, but you tell that to the feline love of your life who is staring longingly at grass he can't roll around in. After discussions with several vets, we decided to allow Bitey supervised visits to his own garden.
So two more years passed.
On Saturday, February 18th 2006, I woke up and went out to run errands. When I fed Bitey he was favoring one of his hind legs. When I came back, he unable to use either of his hind legs. He was paralyzed from the lower spine down.
Anyway, that's about all I have the heart for tonight. As of tonight, Bitey is staying with our local vet, because he cannot (TMI ALERT) evacuate on his own. We miss him. Stay tuned. j
It's always the best ones...
It didn't take long to get to know and adore Bitey. He had me from our flea ridden "hello."
Boyfriend was won over by Bitey's hilarious attempts to bat streams of running water with his tiny paw.
Long running streams of any liquid actually, which made for fun times in the bathroom.... Bitey also learned to be a bit less "bitey" which made for increased fondness and greater toe safety. Once the Percoset wore off, Single Blonde Female was less thrilled with Bitey's continued residence in our apartment, which was by landlord decree, supposed to be cat-free. But, like the pro she was, she faked it. (By the way, do you kind of get the idea that roomie is no longer my roomie?)
During Bitey's first trip to the vet we learned he was approximately three months old, and that, aside from being too skinny, he seemed healthy. So when the test results came back, it was a shock to learn he was positive for Feline Leukemia Virus.
Somewhere in the first three months of his life, either from his mother, or during his time on the streets, Bitey had contracted FeLV. This also explained why no one seemed to be looking for their lost kitten. Every spring, the vet's parking lot was the dumping ground of choice for unwanted kittens. Most were found there and put up for adoption. For whatever reason, Bitey took a hard right, skipped the house with the fake pond, and wound up hiding behind the tree in my front garden.
The idea that Bitey wasn't wanted eased my guilt at not putting up signs, but didn't stop my boyfriend from torturing me by imaging, out loud, the sad little girl searching the back alleys of West Hollywood for her lil' kitty Oliver.
But back to the FeLV. The vet explained this meant that while Bitey could be perfectly healthy for a while, we couldn't expect him to live as long as other cats. How long? Perhaps two years, perhaps five.
Damn.
One cat, three names
So of course I kept the cat. But "it" needed a name. When he went to the vet on Tuesday August 13th, he was listed as Barney. That was the name suggested by Single Blonde Female (after Barney's Beanery, her favorite bar.)
Thanks to sharp teeth and claws, he was immediately re-named Spike (after favorite Whedon vampire, not railroad tie or male-oriented cable channel). And that, I suppose, remains his real name to this day.
But as it often happens, rather than finding the cat a name, the name found the cat. My boyfriend was, at the time, somewhere between cat-neutral and cat-suspicious. It didn't help that he kept waking up from vivid dreams of his feet stuck in a blender, only to see the cat gnawing happily on his exposed toes. This cat loved to bite.
And it was my (formerly) cat-neutral boyfriend who found our kitten's true name. As comedy writer and improv comedian, not only does he loves The Simpsons, but he can stand in front of that Simpsons poster with all the characters and do each voice--well.
So he started quoting from Marge vs. the Monorail: "I call the big one Bitey."
And that's how Spike became Bitey.
(Don't worry, William the Bloody, you're still our favorite vampire.)
Thanks to sharp teeth and claws, he was immediately re-named Spike (after favorite Whedon vampire, not railroad tie or male-oriented cable channel). And that, I suppose, remains his real name to this day.
But as it often happens, rather than finding the cat a name, the name found the cat. My boyfriend was, at the time, somewhere between cat-neutral and cat-suspicious. It didn't help that he kept waking up from vivid dreams of his feet stuck in a blender, only to see the cat gnawing happily on his exposed toes. This cat loved to bite.
And it was my (formerly) cat-neutral boyfriend who found our kitten's true name. As comedy writer and improv comedian, not only does he loves The Simpsons, but he can stand in front of that Simpsons poster with all the characters and do each voice--well.
So he started quoting from Marge vs. the Monorail: "I call the big one Bitey."
And that's how Spike became Bitey.
(Don't worry, William the Bloody, you're still our favorite vampire.)
Ditched and Found
When I graduated from college and moved into my first apartment, my mother offered me a plant. I told her thanks, but I wasn't up for that level of commitment.
When I moved to Los Angeles, a city mad for flowers and foliage, my mother bought me a large planter full of hardy outdoor plants to compete with the mini-jungles cultivated by my neighbors. Sadly, the plants died. Only their dried stalks remained, a scarlet letter at my doorstep, for all West Hollywood to see.
On my journey past the twenty-something's four pillars of commitment, (plant, pet, boyfriend, baby) I had run out of steam in the first mile. To be fair, I was spending a lot of time and effort keeping my fragile relationship well watered. I had moved west to see if my long-distant boyfriend was the real thing or just a mirage, but the transition from vacation relations to reality was taking just about all the energy I had. Plants, pets, and (lord knows) babies, would just have to wait.
From February to July 2002, I tried to settle into LA. Some things were remarkably easy. The man at the electric company didn't just ask for my social security number, he wanted to know when I moved, and from where, and why, and how was it all going? The salesman at the mattress store, dismayed by the fact that I was sleeping on the floor of my new apartment, had his deliveryman make one last late night delivery, so that very night I could dream in comfort on my pillow-top deluxe.
Other things took time. Luckier than most of the unemployed dreamers trying to "make it" in LA, I had a new job, two friends, my favorite aunt and a boyfriend. Still, I battled the loneliness and insecurity brought on by leaving an east coast life padded by mom, dad, and all the best friends my life had produced so far.
And so it went, into the summer. I joined a book club, and went to the beach. Driving down Sunset Boulevard, I marveled at how the summer wind could be so warm and still have the bite of early spring. I cried more than usual. I bought a lot of furniture, pushing away the thought that each piece was another obstacle to a sudden escape from LA. I got cable, so I could have a wider selection of televised anesthesia.
Which brings me to a warm Monday evening in August. I was seated at my newly purchased dining room table with my roommate. (In the interest of never saying, speaking or writing her name again, we'll just call her Single Blonde Female. Let your mind do the rest). She was riding high on Percoset, describing the removal of her wisdom teeth in graphic detail.
I thought I heard something outside the window, but couldn't place the noise. I heard it again, low but frantic, the sound of something desperate to be noticed, but desperately afraid to be heard. Barefoot, I ran out the door, and walked slowly along the edge of the iron fence that enclosed our small front garden. I looked through shadowy plants, but saw nothing until I came to the end of the fence. Peering out from the growth was a scrawny orange and white kitten. He made the face of a howling cat, but only a small squeak emerged. I didn't think. I grabbed him by the scruff, pulled him tight to my chest and walked inside.
My roommate, in her prescription haze, could only stare at the wriggling creature. I let the cat down onto the floor and it howled, again making no noise. Then it started to run, back and forth across the wood floor. I could see all its ribs, and its face was dirty. It had no collar.
I told SBF that we would have to keep the cat overnight. Then I would take it to the vet the next day and determine if someone had lost a kitty. I ran to the 7-11, bought litter and food. The kitten wolfed his food, while I constructed temporary litter box out of cardboard. SBF picked up a carrier and some anti-flea soap from her boyfriend's house, then left for the night.
The wide-eyed kitten scrambled under the table as she shut the door. Trying to assess the situation, he peered out from amongst the forest of chair-legs. He was a long-haired white cat with a tiger-striped mask on his ears and face and orange spots on his body. He had a wild orange fox-tail, and lustrous dark lines curling from the corner of each amber eye.
I picked him up and looked him again. It didn't take long to discover that he had fleas. As the kitten continued to run frantically around the apartment, I decided that he probably wouldn't stay in one place long enough to let the fleas jump onto my furniture. Hah.
After a full evening of fussing, teaching him where to find the litter, and trying to decide if he was born wild or just lost, I decided to call it a night. As I lay my head down on the pillow, the kitten howled in the darkness, then jumped up onto the bed. He took a long look at me. Then he plopped down at the head of my pillow, curled up around the crown of my head, and pressed his soft-flea ridden belly directly against my scalp.
I jumped up and tried to place him on the ground. He yowled, and jumped back up on the pillow, nuzzling his flea-ridden head against mine. I flipped the pillow over and tried to place him at the foot of my bed, reasoning that the little buggies couldn't travel that far north by the end of the night. He returned to the pillow immediately. I looked at the clock-midnight. I picked up the cat and walked into the bathroom.
After bathing the cat in anti-flea soap, which he endured with a withering glare, I grabbed tweezers and started attacking the fleas. Looking back, it was probably somewhere in the middle of that late-night session of flea-plucking that I felt the first stirrings of love. Love, mixed with a certain revulsion induced by a pest-ridden kitty. Love, charged with the low-grade current of fear brought on by snatching something off the street and letting it into your bed.
Which is exactly what I did. I dug through my closet, took out a knit cap, and pulled it down around my ears. As the kitten snuggled against my head and began to purr, I resigned myself to the thought that I had slept with worse.
When I moved to Los Angeles, a city mad for flowers and foliage, my mother bought me a large planter full of hardy outdoor plants to compete with the mini-jungles cultivated by my neighbors. Sadly, the plants died. Only their dried stalks remained, a scarlet letter at my doorstep, for all West Hollywood to see.
On my journey past the twenty-something's four pillars of commitment, (plant, pet, boyfriend, baby) I had run out of steam in the first mile. To be fair, I was spending a lot of time and effort keeping my fragile relationship well watered. I had moved west to see if my long-distant boyfriend was the real thing or just a mirage, but the transition from vacation relations to reality was taking just about all the energy I had. Plants, pets, and (lord knows) babies, would just have to wait.
From February to July 2002, I tried to settle into LA. Some things were remarkably easy. The man at the electric company didn't just ask for my social security number, he wanted to know when I moved, and from where, and why, and how was it all going? The salesman at the mattress store, dismayed by the fact that I was sleeping on the floor of my new apartment, had his deliveryman make one last late night delivery, so that very night I could dream in comfort on my pillow-top deluxe.
Other things took time. Luckier than most of the unemployed dreamers trying to "make it" in LA, I had a new job, two friends, my favorite aunt and a boyfriend. Still, I battled the loneliness and insecurity brought on by leaving an east coast life padded by mom, dad, and all the best friends my life had produced so far.
And so it went, into the summer. I joined a book club, and went to the beach. Driving down Sunset Boulevard, I marveled at how the summer wind could be so warm and still have the bite of early spring. I cried more than usual. I bought a lot of furniture, pushing away the thought that each piece was another obstacle to a sudden escape from LA. I got cable, so I could have a wider selection of televised anesthesia.
Which brings me to a warm Monday evening in August. I was seated at my newly purchased dining room table with my roommate. (In the interest of never saying, speaking or writing her name again, we'll just call her Single Blonde Female. Let your mind do the rest). She was riding high on Percoset, describing the removal of her wisdom teeth in graphic detail.
I thought I heard something outside the window, but couldn't place the noise. I heard it again, low but frantic, the sound of something desperate to be noticed, but desperately afraid to be heard. Barefoot, I ran out the door, and walked slowly along the edge of the iron fence that enclosed our small front garden. I looked through shadowy plants, but saw nothing until I came to the end of the fence. Peering out from the growth was a scrawny orange and white kitten. He made the face of a howling cat, but only a small squeak emerged. I didn't think. I grabbed him by the scruff, pulled him tight to my chest and walked inside.
My roommate, in her prescription haze, could only stare at the wriggling creature. I let the cat down onto the floor and it howled, again making no noise. Then it started to run, back and forth across the wood floor. I could see all its ribs, and its face was dirty. It had no collar.
I told SBF that we would have to keep the cat overnight. Then I would take it to the vet the next day and determine if someone had lost a kitty. I ran to the 7-11, bought litter and food. The kitten wolfed his food, while I constructed temporary litter box out of cardboard. SBF picked up a carrier and some anti-flea soap from her boyfriend's house, then left for the night.
The wide-eyed kitten scrambled under the table as she shut the door. Trying to assess the situation, he peered out from amongst the forest of chair-legs. He was a long-haired white cat with a tiger-striped mask on his ears and face and orange spots on his body. He had a wild orange fox-tail, and lustrous dark lines curling from the corner of each amber eye.
I picked him up and looked him again. It didn't take long to discover that he had fleas. As the kitten continued to run frantically around the apartment, I decided that he probably wouldn't stay in one place long enough to let the fleas jump onto my furniture. Hah.
After a full evening of fussing, teaching him where to find the litter, and trying to decide if he was born wild or just lost, I decided to call it a night. As I lay my head down on the pillow, the kitten howled in the darkness, then jumped up onto the bed. He took a long look at me. Then he plopped down at the head of my pillow, curled up around the crown of my head, and pressed his soft-flea ridden belly directly against my scalp.
I jumped up and tried to place him on the ground. He yowled, and jumped back up on the pillow, nuzzling his flea-ridden head against mine. I flipped the pillow over and tried to place him at the foot of my bed, reasoning that the little buggies couldn't travel that far north by the end of the night. He returned to the pillow immediately. I looked at the clock-midnight. I picked up the cat and walked into the bathroom.
After bathing the cat in anti-flea soap, which he endured with a withering glare, I grabbed tweezers and started attacking the fleas. Looking back, it was probably somewhere in the middle of that late-night session of flea-plucking that I felt the first stirrings of love. Love, mixed with a certain revulsion induced by a pest-ridden kitty. Love, charged with the low-grade current of fear brought on by snatching something off the street and letting it into your bed.
Which is exactly what I did. I dug through my closet, took out a knit cap, and pulled it down around my ears. As the kitten snuggled against my head and began to purr, I resigned myself to the thought that I had slept with worse.
Does the world need another kitty blog?
No. Not in the least. But my cat is very sick, and no one can tell me why, which makes me sad, frustrated, and frightened. So I guess I need a kitty blog, and may the world forgive me for it.
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