It’s been a bad week on the pet front out here. Okay, we knew what we were getting into when we ended up with three of them being 15, 16 and 21.
we have another bad year coming up in five to ten years, since the “babies” are 10 and 11.
Except as those of you who are cat people know, we never actually chose this. They came to us, and we ran out of alternatives on finding them a home.
So far so good. Everyone still alive. But D’Argatnan cat possibly not for long. The fact he’s the worst patient ever doesn’t help. He refuses to eat the expensive prescription food, cheek pouches his tablets, and apparently means to go out as cantankerous and self-willed as he lived.
Euclid… well. I need to figure out if he screams because he’s demented or screams because he’s in pain, or just screams. To an extent we’ve been putting off that decision while his quality of life deteriorates, and of course, because they can’t speak making a decision is hellish. I’m going to feel guilty if I delay and guilty if I take him on that last, sad trip. What I’d like to do for him, which is make him a thriving 5 year old again is not given to human.
Greebo we might have with us a few more years, if the hyperthyroidism treatment worked. Sometimes, if it’s cancer, it doesn’t work. And we won’t know for sure for probably three months. Meanwhile he’s upset because he’s boarded away from me, until the law no longer requires us to store his poop. (No, I know, but I also don’t want to go to prison or on a no-fly list for putting radioactive material in the trash, even if the law is insane, okay?)
So I remembered that in happier days long, long ago there was a website I’d since lost track of in which the owner kept track of “bad pet” stories written in the form the cats or dogs would write them if they were kids writing something a hundred times.
Like this, the one entry I remember clearly for no good reason: I will not eat spider plants and then hallucinate and fight imaginary enemies behind the toilet.
There are others I remember for reason, including the entries sent in by a Catholic priest whose cat seemed to have a theological obsession.
I will not follow my keeper to six am mass, place myself in the middle of the isle and convince all the elderly parishioners I’m possessed by standing and sitting at all the right times.
I realize that my keeper can’t make my food into communion, so I’ll stop making him do the sign of the cross over my food before I eat it.
There were others, including very silly things about not recognizing his keeper in vestments, but I don’t remember them as clearly.
One of my own contributions was Miranda cat (top weight around 5 lbs), the kids’ bunkbed when they were little, and our ceiling fan set to go slow (and backward) in winter to help heat circulation.
The ceiling fan is not a carousel. I will not sit loafed on a blade and scare my little human brother who thinks I’m going to fall.
It occurred to me if you guys send your own bad pet stories to my book promo address (make sure the subject says Bad pet) I can make this an occasional feature when I have a million things to do and don’t want to think of a Saturday morning.
I’ll lead on with some of the current cat crop.
Valeria – Greebo is not the anticat and judging from markings he’s probably my brother. I will not sound the alarm at anti-aircraft levels when he comes downstairs in the middle of the night to eat some food.
Greebo – If mommy takes a break from writing to take a nap because she got up early to work, I will not attempt to put her glasses back on and herd her to the computer. I don’t pay her. And I’m not the reincarnation of a long-dead editor. (Probably.)
Havelock – I will not for the only time in my life develop an overwhelming interest in hygiene and start licking myself while leaning against mom while she’s a sleep. She doesn’t like being shaken, and I’ve only not taken flying lessons because she loves me.
Euclid – If I didn’t piss and poop wherever I happen to stand, I wouldn’t be confined. I shouldn’t lament night and day because it’s not going to help. Also, who are you? and Millennium hand in shrimp.
D’Artagnan – I will not pouch my pills in order to spit them on the kitchen floor. They’re the only thing keeping me alive, and mom doesn’t care if I self identify was a squirrel.
Havey again – Mom’s robe belt is not a toy, and I won’t leap around like a lunatic trying to kill it, just because she hung it on the bed. Also dad’s hand while he’s a sleep is not a toy, and attempts to hunt down his fingers will get me thrown out of the bedroom. Also the computer cord is not a toy. In fact the world is full of things that aren’t a toy, and I will admit this. Someday.
Valeria again – Mom’s Wandering Jew Plant has no known nutritional value. And I’m not a plant designer. I’ll stop trying to nibble new shapes into the leaves that grow down into my range. Also given the name of the plant, mom is starting to wonder if I’m possessed by Corbyn.
D’Artagnan again – While sneaking upstairs to eat the upstairs cats’ food is lots of fun, I should understand it is in no way good for a kitteh in renal failure. I have to think whether the joy up upsetting Havelock outweighs shortening my life.
Greebo again – Mom is allowed to sit elsewhere than at her desk. Also, she can type on things other than novels, (even if she has no idea how I know.) Mom is now indie, so no one is paying me. I must stop amusing myself by being the author’s taskmaster.
Anyway… That’s it. I need to go clean.