Five Years Ago Today

It's hard to believe that it's been that long since Ms. Christopher left this world for some other, better place, but calendars don't lie.

I still miss that big white fluffball to this day, but the sad memories of her last few weeks have receded to the background, and the happy memories of all the funny little things she did--like tapping my on the face in the morning when she wanted to be fed, or crawling across the floor as flat as any 20-lb. cat ever could whenever she heard thunder or fireworks--have resumed their place in the fore. Just as it should be.

Fragile Creatures

Tuesday Night. I've just popped open one of the many, many books I have stacked next to my bed when there's a sound from within the darkness just outside the reading lamp's light. I strain to see what's making the sound--my eyesight officially sucks, and the reading lamp isn't helping--and I can just make out a dark silhouette against the slight filtered light of the hallway.

It's Olivia, asking permission to "come aboard."

Not that she needs to ask, really. She's always welcome to come up, curl up, and keep me company while I toss, turn or do just about anything but actually "sleep."

Company-keeping is not why she's here tonight, though. Tonight, she wants to play "Mousie."

If you have a cat, you've probably, at one time or another, played "Mousie." The game is simple: Stick your hand under a blanket or top sheet and move it around like there's a "mousie" under the covers, and the cat in question lunges at the "mousie" and tries to kill it (or, at the very least, catch it).

Olivia plays the game a bit differently. She knows the thing moving around under the plaid top sheet is not a mouse. In fact, she will only stand and watch until a bit of flesh is revealed--a finger, a thumb, a patch of palm--and only then will she strike. When she grows tired of the game, she'll jump up and grab the exposed forearm and, if she's really quick, she'll get a bite in while she's at it.

Sometimes, she stops playing and starts to take the game seriously: Her ears will flatten against her skull, and she'll kick with her hind legs, which still have claws on the paws. Many a night, I've had to shoo her off the bed because she was doing actual damage to the "mousie" (i.e., my hand).

Still, her willingness to play/maim is a sign that she's feeling pretty good on a given day. (Note: She plays "Mousie" most evenings.)

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Today is the day I celebrate Olivia's birthday. (It is also the birthday of Lon Chaney Sr. and Rachel Maddow, which just goes to show that good things happen on April 1.) As I've explained before, I don't know with an certainty that she was born on this day, just that she was born sometime one side or the other of this day.

A year ago, though, it looked like Olivia wouldn't last one more week, much less 52 of them.

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Saturday Afternoon. I'm in the dining room, doing a bit of writing at my now-14-year-old lime-green iMac. (Polly Jean can't get on the Internet anymore, but she works just fine for word processing or photo scanning.) Suddenly, the desk chair bucks forward, then back again. Olivia has jumped on the back of the chair--something she was able to do even when seriously ill last year, but now with greater speed and strength--and is now sharpening claws she hasn't actually had for several years.

"What are you doing, little girl?" I ask, knowing full well that the only answer will be a drawn-out and pointed "Meeeeeeoooooowwwww!"

"That doesn't tell me anything," I reply. She could not care less. She wanted my attention. She's got it.

I stand up, and she jumps off the chair and onto the hardwood floor, landing right next to one of the many paper bags scattered around La Casa del Terror for her to play in when she feels up to it. Sometimes, she runs into a bag and waits for me to shake the bag violently or pick the bag up and carry her around for a minute. (She apparently enjoys this.)

Today, I yell "KITTY IN THE BAG!" at her. And, remarkably enough, she sprints around the bag and right into it.

Olivia has learned a new thing. And, for once, she actually does something I tell her to do. Weird.

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Olivia's numbers at diagnosis were awful: she was severely dehydrated, severely anemic, creatinine level of 9.5 (about four times normal). It did not look like she had very long to live.

Of course, those numbers merely represented where she stood before receiving any treatment whatsoever. With regular hydration and medication, those numbers would likely improve.

And so they did. Eventually.

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Friday Morning. We both hate this, this sitting and waiting in the reception area at the vet. It's like when I took exams in school--even when I expected to do well, I was still nervous and twitchy. I have no reason to expect anything bad today. Olivia has been eating well--never thought I'd get so much pleasure from watching a cat clean a plate of food--and, except for a few scattered days of lethargy, has more or less been herself.

Finally, one of the vet's assistants leads us to the back examination room, which is one of my least favorite places on Earth--not only is this the room where Olivia was diagnosed with kidney failure nearly a year ago, but it's also the room where Ms. Christopher was put to sleep back in 2008. The assistant plops her on the digital scale, and we both get a pleasant surprise: Olivia has not only gained weight (which I knew, just from the way she feels when I pick her up), but she's now a hair over eight pounds! She's more or less regained all of the weight that she'd lost while ill.

A few minutes later, the vet comes in and chats with me for a while. She's so pleased with how Olivia is doing and gives me all the credit. Not so. Sure, I've worked at keeping her feeling as good as possible, though it doesn't actually take up that much of my day--if you added up the administration of injections, pills, fluids and phosphorus binder, it would come to about half an hour per day--but the vet's willingness to aggressively treat Olivia's condition (and never once bringing up the subject of euthanasia) has a lot to do with our success as well. And then, there's the little lady herself: If she didn't want to live, we wouldn't be here now.

The vet takes Olivia down the hall to withdrawn blood to send out to the lab. It seems to be taking longer than usual when one of the other assistants comes in to grab Olivia's carrier. Apparently, the "little lady" is being difficult. "She hasn't bitten anyone," the assistant says, "but there's been swatting."

I follow the assistant into the examination room where the vet and two other assistants are standing around, looking at a clearly agitated little cat. The carrier is placed before her. I consider yelling "KITTY IN THE BAG!" to get her to jump in, but it'd be just my luck if, this time, she just stands there while the vet and her assistants slowly back away from me.

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It took weeks (and several medication/fluid adjustments) for Olivia's numbers to move significantly downward, but move they did. As of that last vet visit described so colorfully above, her creatinine level was 2.2--officially "high normal." Her phosphorus went down again, too. Only her calcium and BUN (blood urea nitrogen) levels remain above normal, and neither of those is very far above normal.

Olivia's numbers were so good, in fact, that the vet said we don't need to come in again for six months--something that makes me, Olivia and my bank account very, very happy.

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Thursday Evening. After another wearying day at work in a long series of wearying days at work, I sit down on the big burgundy couch in front of the TV to eat dinner and watch The Rachel Maddow Show.

Then I hear a sound--paws pounding on hardwood. Olivia is running back and forth through La Casa del Terror, emerging from the darkness of the hallway at top speed, turning into the living room, stopping at the front door, spinning and heading back from whence she came, never slowing down a bit.

Was she chasing one of her toys? A moth? A mouse?

None of the above. Olivia is running back and forth...just because.

It's something she used to do back before she fell ill. Apparently, it's something she's doing again. And I'm on the verge of crying again--this time, tears of joy.

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We think of them as fragile, these small, furry creatures who share, in the great scheme of things, such a small portion of our lives. They need our protection. Need our love. Need to be fed (hey, those packets of Friskies Gravy Sensations don't open themselves, y'know). need to be taken to the doctor to ease their pain or, if necessary, to end it.

Fortunately for Olivia, that last thing hasn't been necessary. When I told Mom that Olivia had been diagnosed with CKD, she said, "Aw, you're gonna have to have her put to sleep, huh?"

I gave her the most honest answer I could at that moment: "I don't know, Mom."

Now, 12 months later, I know: "Not yet, mom. Not yet."

Yes, Olivia now needs daily injections, hydration and white, chalky gunk shot down her throat. (I no longer think of her as my sick kitteh, but my high-maintenance kitteh.) She, of course, loves none of it. Yet, after doing all of that to her, she'll curl up next to me on the couch, purring contentedly, rubbing against my hand, showing reserves of quiet strength, resilience and determination to live that no one would have suspected could be housed in such a slight calico frame, making me smile and bringing the tears yet again.

Maybe this small, furry creature isn't the one who is fragile.

The olivia Update

Just about every day, somebody asks me how Olivia is doing. (In fact, as I was typing that sentence, a coworker stopped at my desk and asked, "So, how's the cat?")

It's touching that so many people care about this little kitty (and, by extension, her person). Most of these people have never met Olivia. Most never will. But they all have (or have had) pets of their own. They all know what it's like to deal with a major illness in that pet. And most, if not all, have faced that moment when there's nothing left to do but stop fighting, let go and say goodbye.

Fortunately, we're not at that point yet. Each visit to the vet yields its share of good news and bad--progress on some fronts, challenges on others. Her blood test shows she's less anemic? Yay! It also shows her phosphorus is up? Boo! She gained a tenth of a pound last week? Cool! She lost that same tenth of a pound by the next visit? Not as cool. Her phosphorus level is going down? About damn time! Her creatinine (toxin) level is going up? Crap.

(That last one was serious enough to merit a rush visit to the hospital to check Olivia's blood pressure--which, as it turns out, is "terrific," to use the vet's own word for it--and, consequently, up her IV fluids to help the kidneys better flush the toxins out.)

Every challenge has been met by adjustments in treatment--more fluids or meds here, different or fewer meds there. I have to give herthe aforementioned fluids every day, along with an appetite stimulant now every other day), an antacid (by injection once a day) and a phosphorus binder in the form of a liquid squirted into her mouth (12cc per day, delivered in as many smaller doses as my schedule will allow).

To say she despises this process would be a vast understatement. Every time I have to give her the phosphorus binder, she tries to spit it back out at me or drool it out. Much of my apartment (and my clothing) is covered in white speckles. I always apologize after every treatment.

And, clearly, she forgives me. The photo above was taken right after such a session. She ran out of the bathroom, licked her "wounds" for a few minutes, then jumped up beside me on the couch, curled up and took a nap.

And that's how it goes these days. Olivia has her good days and bad. Sometimes she absolutely loves her kibble, sometimes she looks at me like I've just put a bowl of shit in front of her when I have, in fact, given her something she'd eaten and thoroughly enjoyed just a couple of days before. And, unfortunately, she figured out Ms. Christopher's old trick of hiding under the super-heavy Memory Foam bed to avoid medication/a trip to the vet. I finally had to disassemble the bed and let the mattress and box spring sit inside the frame rather than on it, leaving it flush with the floor. Olivia was not please.

Overall. though, the little girl's appetite and energy are definitely better than when I took her to the hospital six weeks ago. I'm feeding her a wide variety of foods, all lower in phosphorus than her beloved Friskies, and many times she kills the new stuff. She's responded well to the medication, and the hope is that she will keep responding well.

Even if I have to be realistic and accept that my vet and I are only postponing the inevitable, I can still enjoy the little triumphs and small bits of fun, like last night, when I did a load of laundry (still trying to get out those phosphorus binder stains) and accidentally picked up one of Olivia's favorite toys: a white pom-pon given to her by Dee at the last HMB. When I found it in the drier later, I tucked it into my pocket and, when I got back upstairs with the "clean" clothing (the binder stains still more or less in place), I tossed the pom-pon down the hall. Olivia immediately tore after it, swatted it around the hall and trotted back to me, pom-pon in mouth. I threw it down the hall again, and she brought it back again. We repeated this at least a dozen times. She even brought it to bed with her.

She's still here, still with me, still eating and pooping and calling to me from the living room window when I get home. We may have less time together than either one of us had hoped for, but we have the here-and-now. And that will have to do.

A Decade of Adoresixtyfour

Today marks the 10th anniversary of this blog.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

I mean, I guess it's pretty awesome that I've been writing and/or posting photos here (and at this blog's predecessor site, which had a dedicated URL that, for some insane reason, I paid for instead of using Blogger's free, easier service) for so long. As mind-numbing and eye-blearing as my day job can be, it's good--healthy, even--to have an outlet for my more creative impulses.

This blog has also been a great venue for expressing emotional traumas of varying degrees--from the deaths of close friends like Kaytee and Gretchen, to the passing of beloved pets like Lottie and Ms. Christopher (who left this world three years ago today--anniversary convergence), to the continuing lack of love/dating/sex in my life (trust me--anyone reading this, no matter who you are, has gotten some more recently than I have) and the related woes of Valentine's Day, to the slow-but-certain vanishing of the city I grew up in to the personal reaction to the national tragedy of 9/11--much has been vented here. Also good. Also healthy.

But what has that decade amounted to, really?

Am I in a better mental/physical/spiritual place than I was in October 2001? Not really.

Has this blog attracted thousands or hundreds or, hell, a dozen regular readers? Despite attempts to pimp it out on MySpace, then Twitter and finally Facebook, no, it has not.

There were several individuals who, that decade ago, urged/pushed me to do something with whatever writing/photographic talent I may/may not have, and most of them--most notably JB and Jessie--are still here. Others, though, are no longer friends while still others, as noted above, are no longer even alive.

So where, 10 years down the bumpy, toruous road, does that leave me? I don't know.

Does this blog matter in the great scheme of things? does it even matter that much to me anymore, given that, most days, I only post photos here, usually without comment? Where do I go from here, if anywhere?

On. I go on.

Treading water can be fine exercise, but it doesn't really get you anywhere. Far better to lean forward or lie back, start kicking my legs, and head for shore, even if shore is nowhere in sight and my legs are already tired--likely from the weight of this cumbersome metaphor.

(Oh...and for those wondering why I have the photos of a sunflower at the top of this entry and a sunset at the bottm? No particular reason. I just liked them. Hope you do, too.)

Every Little Victory Counts

This morning, I paid off one of my credit cards.

This is a big deal for me. A huge deal, actually. I'd wanted to pay this particular card off for some time--not just because it would decrease my overall debt (which it has, of course), but because I bore this card a particular grudge.

You see, they cut my limit. Twice. The first time when I was unemployed (and leaning more on my plastic than usual), and I was doing a not-so-smart thing: Using balance transfer checks to stay afloat. I decided to pay off a large portion of one of my cards with a balance transfer check from this one, only to find they'd cut my limit, a move that not only restricted my financial movements, but also caused me to default on my payment to that other card. (That card has since closed my account; this incident was no doubt one of their deciding factors).

The second time came when I was using the card in question to pay Ms. Christopher's medical bills, which were, as you might imagine, quite extensive. The notice that they were cutting my limit (again) arrived just days after Christopher died. To say that I took this personally, at a time when I was emotionally raw, would be a vast understatement. It seemed then (as it does now) like they reviewed my account and said, "Hey, this guy looks likes he's down. This would be a really good time to kick him, don't you think?" And so they did.

I cut up the card that night.

It's taken some time and determination, but yesterday I was ready to finally shovel dirt onto this account. I stopped at the bank, drew the funds, and bought the money order on the way home. When I got there, I celebrated thusly: Two Italian beefs with American cheese and giardiniera from the newly opened Al's Beef at Wabash and Jackson (in the spot where the Burger King had been back in my Columbia College days).A low-key celebration, to be sure--to Olivia, it wasn't much different than any other Thursday night--but for once, I wasn't merely content, but happy. And I still am today.

That's one credit card down--only four to go.

Wednesday Miscellania

What better way to get over Hump Day than with random thoughts from me?

*sound of crickets chirping*

Yes...well...anyway...

The last movie I saw: The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus. Terry Gilliam movies tend to be glossy messes overstuffed with imaginative, engaging visuals undercut by meandering, unfocused plots. They also tend to be star-crossed, with financing falls though, studios interfering with editing or, in this case, the lead actor, Heath Ledger, passing away mid-production.

Gilliam found a creative way around this sad problem, though: He cast three other high-profile actors--Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Ferrell--to fill in for Ledger in the scenes that take place within the imagination-made-sort-of-corporeal of the good doctor (Christopher Plummer). The device works reasonably well--Depp in particular gets Ledger's movements and vocal cadences down so minutely that it takes a moment to realize it isn't Ledger.

There are delights to be found here, including Tom Waits as a scruffy, smooth-talking Devil and Lily Cole as the gorgeous daughter the Devil here to collect from Parnassus. but the reality of Ledger's death impedes the fantasy and casts a pall over the whole production, especially since the script already contained musings on mortality ("Nothing is permanent," notes Depp's version of Ledger's character, Tony, "not even death").

Travel reading: Red Dragon by Thomas Harris. It amazes me that this book is nearly 30 years old. It further amazes me that, in all that time, I'd never read it. With all the graphic violence and psychological anguish on display, though, it was this passage that affected me the most:

[The note] said Birmingham police had found a cat buried behind the Jacobi's garage. The cat had a flower between its paws and was wrapped in a dish towel. The cat's name was written on the lid in a childish hand. It wore no collar. A string tied in a granny knot held the lid on.

In my case, there was no lid to tie on, only a towel--not a dish towel, but a royal blue bath towel I'd put in the "cat carrier" (really an orange milk crate with a hinged lid) so that Ms. Christopher would be reasonably comfortable. And it wasn't a flower between her paws, butt was her favorite kitty toys--one of those little burlap bags with the word "catnip" stenciled on the side that had long since its potency, though I'd rub it down with fresh catnip to make my Girlish Girl smile again.

Stealth Cattle Cars. This morning, I got a rude surprise on the CTA Brown Line. As I boarded the second car at Francisco, I looked around and realized that I was on a "Max Capacity" car--a car with seats removed to allow more standing passengers aboard, better known among regular riders as a "cattle car."

Usually, when I see that either the first two or last two cars of a train are "cattle cars" I dash to the closest "regular" car, but this time I didn't do that because I hadn't noticed the large orange signs indicating that it was a "Max Capacity" car. At the next stop, I got off and bunny-hopped to the third car of the train, only to discover that it was a "cattle car" as well. Furthermore, neither car had the typical "Max Capacity" signs on the outside of the car.

I didn't try scrambling down to the next car; I simply found a corner of the car, parked in it and fumed all the way into the Loop.

When I arrived at work, one of my coworkers who takes the Blue Line related a similar experience--she also wound up on a stealth "cattle car" and had to ride it all the way downtown.

Is it something CTA is only just doing because of the inclement weather (which usually drives up ridership temporarily), or is this a permanent shift in policy? If it's the latter--if I'm to play the part of livestock for every morning commute--then I'll be switching to Metra (the separate commuter rail system, which has two stops within long walking distance of La Casa del Terror) or trying to put together a carpool.

CTA may say that they don't have any options, that this is the best they can do. If that's truly the case, then their best isn't nearly good enough. Its true in retail, and it's true here as well: Serve the customer, or the customer will go somewhere else.

Lack of Resolve

I hate making New Year’s resolutions. They feel like little admissions of defeat: "You don’t have enough self-control over what you eat or how much you exercise or how much you spend, so you have to make a list to remind you to do less of this and do more of that. Loser."

The sad fact is, though, that I really don’t exert enough control over parts of my life that should be well in my control. I should weigh less. I should exercise more. I shouldn’t owe as much as I do. I shouldn’t spend as much as I do. There needs to be more balance. There needs to be less stress.

So every year, I go back and forth, forth and back. Do I make resolutions? If so, would general goals be better than specific ones? Should I concentrate on one particular area for improvement--say, finances--or several--say, finances, health and creativity?

Most years, I decide against making a list--after all, I know what I need to do, so why not just get it done? Or not? While going through my documents folder on my work 'puter yesterday, though, I ran across something labeled "resolutions." From 2007. That I had completely forgotten I'd written.

Yikes.

With trepidation, I opened the document and checked out my resolutions from three years ago:

Use credit cards as little as possible; carry cards less frequently and pay in cash whenever possible. I rarely carry any of my cards with me, but large expenses the following year (especially relating to Ms. Christopher's illness) conspired to bring debt reduction to a standstill.

Eliminate at least one credit card this year, two if possible. I still haven't eliminated any of my cards, though one card cut my limit (while Christopher was sick--still haven't forgiven them for that) and another closed my account entirely.

Shop more for needs (groceries, clothing), less for wants (toys, DVDs). Sadly, this resolution has become reality. Shopping is now a most depressing exercise--it's not unusual for me to fill my basket, then walk around the store putting back about 75% of what I'd grabbed in the first place.

Make better use of economic assets: Sell off DVDs and CDs that get little use; continue to put spare change on transit card; cash in pennies at bank; sell items on eBay. I've sold off quite a few DVDs and CDs, but have yet to sell anything on eBay.

Bring lunch to work four days a week; set aside one day to go out for lunch. I bring lunch to work at least two days a week, usually three. Sometimes I make lunch and leave it in the fridge when I toddle off to the job. Sometimes, I remember to take the lunch out of the fridge, but leave it on the counter when I go to work.

Stay off of eBay unless looking for gifts for friends. I rarely buy gifts for friends on eBay these days, but I've cut way back on buying anything there, so there has been improvement in this area nonetheless.

Eat out less; go grocery shopping at least once a month. Other than occasionally ordering a pizza from Marie's or having an even more occasional dinner with friends, I usually make dinner myself. And by "make dinner," I mean "open a can of something and dump cheese and red pepper flakes on it."

Lose at least 20 more pounds. Er...I've actually gained weight since then.

Work out as least twice a week.I have bursts where I work out for weeks, then the routine gets broken for whatever reason--catch a cold, work late several nights in a row, etc.--and I never get back on it. Last month, I had two weeks where I worked out three times during the week, with many, many days where I didn't work out at all. This month? Two workouts--and counting.

Do at least 10 crunches every morning.Not so much. I do, however, do 40 crunches every time I work out, so if you spread those out over a month, it...still wouldn't add up to 10 a day.

Bring lunch to work four days a week; control portions.

Bring healthy snacks to work to augment lunch: Carrots, pretzels, dry cereal. I do this with the same regularity that I bring lunch--more often than I used to, but still not often enough.

Go to bed earlier—around 9:30 most nights. Ha! not even close. Most nights, I'm not in bed before 11, and not asleep before midnight. No wonder my dreams are so screwed up.

Get Canon AE-1 repaired and take more pictures. I did the first part--got Dad's old camera, which served me so well for so long, put back together properly. Wasn't cheap, but it was necessary. However, since Mom gave me the little digital camera that Christmas, I've rarely used the Canon AE-1, though I did recently dig it out when a friend said she needed head shots done. Its days may be numbered anyway--there aren't nearly as many film processors as there used to be, and the few that remain are shifting more and more toward digital.

Organize pictures better; make more large prints for sale. I only do large prints when friends request them and don't charge much beyond the procession cost. Not enough to pay my bus fare most days, much less actually supplement my income.

Update website at least twice a month; post movie reviews at least once a month. Well, the movie review thing fell to the side, but now that I upload photos to the bloggity nearly every day, there's fresh content on it far more often, though I now write essays on it a lot less. I have been working at getting old essays back up here, though. Looking back on my older writing has been somewhat revelatory--I like many of the essays and might just try collecting them in some sort of themed book, but I don't care for the movie reviews that much. Too much sass and snark, not enough analysis and informative commentary. In short, not all that well-written. No wonder I couldn't get a job as a critic--I'm not very good at it.

The Cat in the Window

A couple of weeks ago, I was talking with Superbadfriend (as I often do), and she mention that, when she and her husband dropped me off after our excursion to the Cascade Drive-in, she saw Ms. Christopher sitting in one of the living room windows.

"Which window?" I asked. The one farthest to the right (as seen from outside), she said.

That made sense. That had been Christopher's favorite window.

It also confirmed something I believed for some time--that Christopher's spirit still pads around La Casa del Terror.

Sometimes, I feel a cat jump on the bed when Olivia is already peacefully burrowed under the covers next to me.

Sometimes, I hear a cat sharpening its claws when Olivia sitting next to me, waiting for me to offer some of the milk from my Miller's Pub pint glass.

Sometimes. I even catch a glimpse of white fur out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look, there's nothing there.

It was a year ago today that Ms. Christopher died, and I still miss my sweet old bird. But she's still here in spirit, at least.

Oddly comforting, that.

Six Months Later

I still miss her.

My April Fool

Olivia turns five years old this month.

OK, so I don't know with iron-clad certainty that Olivia turns five this month. I do know, however that, as far as my mom's vet could ascertain, Olivia was about seven months old when I brought her to La Casa del Terror back in November of 2004. That would put her birthday somewhere in April of that year, so celebrating that happy occasion on April Fool's Day seems entirely appropriate.

Not that I'm saying Olivia is a fool. I'm not--not really, anyway. She's incredibly smart--often too smart for her own good.

Like that time she figured out how to get behind the shelving unit in the northeast corner of the dining room, only to find that she then couldn't get out and had to scream for help.

Or when she and I swatted at each other around the headboard--until she decided to take the game seriously and charged at me from behind the headboard, slammed into my left temple and kept going straight across the bed and out of the room, never breaking stride.

You get the idea.

It must be said, though, that since Ms. Christopher died in October, Olivia's personality has shifted. Not to the extent of taking on Chris's personality traits, as sometimes happen with cats (and which did happen, to a certain extent, to Chris after her sister, Lottie, had to be put to sleep), but now Olivia is more inclined to jump up into my lap and stay there for a while--something she'd rarely been inclined to do before. She's also a lot more attentive, playful and even downright cuddly than she had been before--again, not a wholesale personality change, but more a function of being alone all day and craving attention once I finally get home from work.

Tonight, I'll drag my ass back to La Casa del Terror. Tonight, I'll rip open a pouch of Friskies for Olivia, pop something in the microwave for myself and fall into my living room chair to watch "Countdown with Keith Olbermann." And after a few minutes of eating and watching, Olivia will join me, parking at my feet, asking permission to come aboard, waiting for the hand slap at the thigh that signifies consent, and jumping up to curl and purr there for a few minutes. And I will be grateful.

Happy birthday, little one.

The Ghost of Christmas (Stockings) Yet to Come

There's a lot to be said for after-Christmas sales,especially if you can be patient and wait until January or even February to cash in on the deals to be had on holiday tchotchke.

Example: On my lunchbreak today, I wandered away from my office--or, more accurately, I wandered as far as the still-frigid temperatures would allow me--and wound up in one of the big-chain DVD/CD stores.

I had no intention of buying anything--next payday is a week away, and this past payday was the rent check--but one shouldn't walk into such places if one doesn't intend to buy; it's rather like walking into a restaurant without the intention of eating. Nothing caught my eye as far as DVDs or CDs, but I did notice the small island of lingering Christmas items--a few action figures and lunchboxes, but mostly stockings.

At Christmastime, it's traditional for me to hang stockings in La Casa del Terror for me and the kitties. The tradition was more of a melancholy exercise this past holiday season, though, since Ms. Christopher passed away in October. I hung her stocking up anyway, but there was little joy or celebration in the action, but not hanging it up would have been even sadder.

The island before me it seemed, presented possibilities for change--especially since everything was 90% off.

I chose two new stockings: One shaped like "The Leg Lamp" from A Christmas Story for me, and a Hello Kitty-themed stocking for Olivia. They'll be hung from the closet doorknobs with care come the day after Thanksgiving.

That doesn't mean I'm going to dispose of the stockings I'd used in the past for me, Olivia, Chris and Lottie. They'll still be used as decorations around La Casa--reminders of small, warm friends no longer with me, but never completely gone from mind or heart.

If the Fates Allow

2008 is nearly over, down now to less than 48 hours.

About. Fucking. Time.

It's no state secret that this has been a pretty lousy year. The high point? When Red Secretary won an Oscar--I don't think I've ever been happier for someone else's good fortune.

After that? Pretty much all downhill.

Overstatement? Oversimplification? Yes and yes. 2008 wasn't all pain and sadness, all heartache and loss. There were good times with good friends. Fun was had. Not enough fun, to be sure, but is there ever enough fun?

It could be that the year seemed much worse than it actually was because I came into it full of hope. Hope for creative projects that continued to percolate, but never reached a rolling boil. Hope for friendships that had lain dormant for years and were showing signs of life, but now appear to have died entirely. Hope for good things for the sweet, wonderful people around me that just didn't happen in the abundance that they should have.

But now, 2008 is almost in the rear-view mirror where it belongs. I'll spend the last couple of evenings at La Casa del Terror, petting Olivia, watching bad horror movies and sipping cheap...um, inexpensive wine.

Most importantly, I'll move into the New Year with the knowledge that it'll be better than this year was. (Yes, I know--that's setting the bar pretty low. At this point, I'll take whatever improvement I can get, yo.) Or, as one of my MySpace friends put it, "If you don't have a happy new year, I'll beat you up. In the least sexy way possible."

If you think I'm going to argue with that, you're crazier than I am.

Happy New Year, everyone.

2008: The Year in Photos (sort of)

Last Christmas, Mom bought me a digital camera.

This was not what I had asked for. I likely wanted something boring and practical. Sheet sets. Throws. Something like that. And, of course, she bought something else. (This year? I asked for a new electric razor, and she bought one. Wonders? Will never cease.)

Even though I hadn't asked for it, I used the little digital camera regularly. I did not, however, download any photos from it. The software that came with it wasn't compatible with my now-ancient iMac, Polly Jean (she didn't even recognize it as software), and I'd need a system administrator to authorize the installation of the software on my work 'puter (and it's not related to my job, so...SOL). That meant that I had a helluva lot of pictures stored on the camera--216, to be exact--when I finally took it to the Ritz Camera near work and got a CD burned the day after Christmas.

So here, without further comment, are some of the photos from the year that was, such as it was.

Tigger

Not long after Dad died, Mom took a job as a cashier at a neighborhood grocery store.

It wasn't so much because she needed the income, although the extra cash didn't hurt, but because she didn't want to sit at home, thinking about the fact that her life partner, the man she'd been married to for 30-plus years and raised two children with, was gone.

The store she worked at wasn't one of the national chains, but a much smaller local chain that had a couple of locations in the city and at least one location in the suburbs, which apparently still exists. The two city locations, including the one Mom worked at, are long gone. (One was razed ro make way for a Dominick's; the other is a parking lot.)

She didn't work there long--something under a year--before moving on to another cashier job, this time at a large drugstore chain, where she's been ever since. In her short time at the grocery store, though, she came away with something most people don't get on the job: a cat.

The cat in question, a female tabby, was small and young--perhaps a few months old--but evidently quite loud. She had gotten into the grocery store's warehouse, and other, less feline-incline employees were planning on capturing the kitty and, at the very least, throwing it out, if not removing it in a much more permanent fashion.

Cats, though, are, for the most part, smart critters. They know when someone likes cats and when they don't. Mom was able to coax the tabby to her, earn its trust, and eventually bring it home.

Mom named the tabby Tigger--not the most imaginative name, I know, but our family will never be renowned for our ability to give intriguing appelations to pets (examples: our Black Lab mix was named Blackie; my Russian Blue, Gray Cat).

She almost wound up being my cat. When I moved out of the apartment on the second floor of my parents' house and into the first La Casa del Terror, I definitely wanted to have cats with me, but Gray Cat was quite elderly by that point and would need more attention than I could give her; Mom and my brother would be home much more and could keep a better eye on her. (She lived a couple more years, to the ripe old age of 20.) Mom very much wanted me to take Tigger, a very personable (and now much better fed) feline, and another recent acquisition, a female gray-and-white kitty called, er, Kitty-Kitty. (See what I mean about the names?) I had already committed to take on Lottie and Ms. Christopher from JB, though, so I got the Girlish Girls and Mom kept her two new furry friends.

Mom wasn't too thrill about that at first. Or so she said--she'd agreed readily to the idea of me taking Olivia off her hands, but when the day came, she had tears in her eyes.

It didn't take Mom long to get over "being stuck" with Tigger, though, as she found that the young kitty was friendly, affectionate and, unimaginative as her name was, appropriately bouncy. Other cats came as older cats went away, but Tigger and her new friend, Kitty-Kitty, made Mom smile many, many times, as beloved pets always will.

In the last couple of years, Tigger had her medical challenges, as all elderly kitties will. Her joints were creaky, her kidneys were less than bouncy, and her weight, never great, dropped noticable. However, Mom often said, as long as Tigger ate, pooped and was in no obvious pain, there was no reason to have her put to sleep.

I visit Mom's house for dinner as often as I can--weekly if possible, though work and weather sometimes get in the way. Last Saturday was Mom's birthday--no way I was missing that. I brought dinner (Mom's meal of choice, Popeyes chicken) and two pair of brand-new gloves (she'd requested one pair, but the sales in the department stores are so "pleasepleaseplease!" this year that I was able to buy her two pair for less than the regular price of one). We ate dinner and watched TV for a while, and various cats paid me visits, including Tigger. She was walking unsteadily, reminding me uncomfortably of Christopher's uncertain gait in the couple of days before I had to take her to the vet one last time, but she managed to jump onto the loveseat, walk tentatively onto my lap and stay there much of the evening.

Mom regarded Tigger sadly. "She going to be the next to go," she said.

"I think you're right," I replied, stroking the kitty's head and trying to feel her purr--it was there, barely audible.

When it was time for me to head for home, I gently lifted Tigger out of my lap. "Put her on the warm spot," Mom instructed, pointing at the ass imprint I'd left on the blanket covering the loveseat. I placed the elderly tabby there, and she immediately curled up and went to sleep.

On Monday, Tigger seemed to be having even more trouble walking, and Mom decided to take her to the vet Tuesday morning to see what, if anything, could be done. Monday night, Mom was in her bedroom, watching a bit of TV before retiring for the night, as is her custom, when she heard a cat pawing at the closed door and crying. She got up and opened the door. It was Kitty-Kitty making all the noise, but she didn't come in. Instead, it was Tigger, also standing there, who made her way into the bedroom. Kitty-Kitty then turned and walked away. She hadn't wanted into the bedroom at all; she just wanted her longtime friend, too weak to ask for herself anymore, to be able to go where she wanted to be, to go sleep with Mom, who picked her up carefully, placed her on the bed and kept her company until they both fell asleep.

Tuesday morning, Mom got up early to take Tigger to the vet. There was no need--Tigger had passed away peacefully in her sleep. She was 14 years old.

Gigi

She was a small kitty--one of those tiny felines who never grows much beyond the age of six months. But as is so often the case when one considers small packages, this one contained more heart and warmth than cats five times her size.

Whenever Dee invited her friends over to her spacious apartment, Gigi would come out several times to "work the room," visiting each person and offering her head to be petted. Many times, she would jump up into one of the visitor's laps and spend a few minutes there, talk loudly and frequently (as calicos of every size often do) and then jump down to give someone else in the room a chance.

When Gigi wasn't in the room, we'd often joke that she had run off to my place to have a wild party with my kitties, Olivia and Ms. Christopher. We imagined the three of them trashing the joint and leaving much debris in their furry wakes. (In truth, given the usual state of organization in La Casa del Terror, I doubt I'd be able to tell the difference if they had trashed the joint.)

She was an elderly girl when Dee adopted her from the shelter several years ago, but with much love and attention from her "mom," she enjoyed life despite the occasional health challenge.

This past Thanksgiving Day, though, Dee had to take Gigi to the emergency veterinary hospital, where she was told that Gigi was experiencing renal failure and heart problems. After a couple more days at her regular vet, Gigi came home, where she and Dee continued to fight the good fight with the aid of syringe-fed meds and IV fluids.

This past Friday, the fight ended. Gigi moved on over the Rainbow Bridge, where she no doubt met up with Ms. Christopher to pass the catnip hookah and share a laugh or two at all the fun and frolic they had with their human friends, left behind to mourn their passing.

That is if, in fact, cats actually laugh. I know that they smile--and bring many smiles in return.

The Christmas Stocking

I violated one of my hard-and-fast rules this week: I put up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving.

I justified the rules violation thusly--for one thing, we have fewer days between Turkey Day and Santa's sleigh this year than normal (less than a month), so the decorations won't be up for long anyway; for another, I needed the emotional boost that colored lights and shiny glass globes can sometimes give.

So I rummaged through the closets and brought out some of the Christmas things. Not all of them--I have more ornaments and garland and lights and figurines than I could ever display at one time anyway, but this year I didn't want to do anything intricate or sprawling. Something (relatively) simple for the living room windows would suffice.

When I was finished, the sills were filled with decorations acquired from various places:

A porcelain white pine tree found at the Brown Elephant, a second-hand store in Boystown (it didn't come with a light, but I borrowed one from a Halloween skull);

Two ceramic angels from Marshall's, one with a broken halo (I've always thought that's exactly the kind of guardian angel I'd get);

A very Seussian Grinch doll from a Hallmark store;

A tin snowman tealight holder from a former workplace (the company was moving and he was being thrown out, so...);

A plush snowman from Walgreens;

Peppermint Kitty, a gift from a then-supervisor that I actually liked;

A large, well-articulated, flocked Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer found at Quake, the best toy store on the whole planet;

A spiral, chrome-plated tealight tree bought at a Walgreens while on the way to take care of Dee's kitty, the fabulous Gigi, while Dee was in Hawaii doing the AIDS marathon a few years back;

And, of course, the little fake pine that graced Grandma's living room window for many years and has graced mine for nearly as long (about 30 years in all, I'd guesstimate).

I also set up a few decorations that only I can see, like a ceramic Christmas tree bought at the same Brown Elephant as the white porcelain one, the glittery angel VB gave me last year, and Angelique, the little ornament that usually sits atop my tree, but since I'm not going through the bother of setting the 3-foot-tall faux pine this year, she's resting on my TV, keeping watch over the scene.

A couple of the internal decorations, though, were hung with, I must confess, some reluctance.

I don't remember when exactly I started hanging Christmas stockings for myself and the Girlish Girls. I know I didn't put one up for Lottie, so it must have been sometime after she died five years ago. In the bag in the closet, there were three not-so-neatly-folded stockings, all bought in different years from the same Target. The forest green one was Olivia's. The corduroy one with the embroidered snowflake was mine. And the burgundy one with the white trim and dangling balls? That one belonged to Ms. Christopher.

It's been just over a month since that sad morning when I woke up early, played Christopher the Johnny Cash/Fiona Apple version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," took the slow cab ride through rush-hour snarl and, in the small examination room at the vet, softly told her that it was okay, she'd put up a good fight but it was over now and it was okay, she could let go now. And before the vet had a chance to administer a second "just to be sure" injection, she checked Christopher's pulse one more time and found there was no need for that second injection. She had let go.

It might as well have been yesterday, though. I still expect to see her come around the corner in the morning for her tin of Friskies. I still her her clawing at the side of the box spring, asking to be lifted to the bed. I still see her at the dining room window, resplendant in the afternoon sun. I still miss her. Olivia does too, after her own fashion. She stopped looking for Chris after the first couple of days, but is all over me when I come home in the evenings, especially after I've been gone for a long time at work or out shoping or whatever. She's lonely without me, but when I settle in to eat dinner or watch Svengoolie; she keeps me company, and I do the same for her.

I decided not to hang my own stocking--not much I expect to find in it this year, though my Amazon wishlist has a few goodies that might well fit and would certainly be welcome. I did hang Olivia's up where I'd put it last year--on the doorknob of one of the closets in the short hall between the living and dining rooms--but I left Christopher's stocking in storage.

It didn't look or feel right though, seeing only one stocking dangling from the doorknob like that. So out came the burgundy stocking, slung over the protruding hinge of the same door from which Oliva's dark green stocking already swung. Christopher was with me for a lot of years, and this first Christmas without her will have its hard moments. But I'm thankful for all the warmth and unconditional love she gave me all that time, and the stocking will remind me, when the sadness threatens to overwhelm me, how happy she mad me so often and how grateful I am that I had her in my life for so long.

Ms. Christopher is gone in body from La Casa del Terror and will never return (though tufts of her fur keep turning up and likely will for some time). But she's not gone in spirit. Never in spirit. And for this Christmas at least, the stocking will help me remember that.

Many Thanks...

...for all the condolences and hugs (real and virtual) over the passing of Ms. Christopher, including comments, emails, phone calls and text messages from both the Left and Right Coasts and many points in between, and blog tributes from Green Dreams and Superbadfriend.

I think the old bird would have been quite surprised at the number of lives she touched. Then again, she probably would have hidden under the couch until all of you were gone.

Swimming Underwater

That's what it's felt like the past couple of days.

After rallying somewhat over the weekend with her new, improved meds, Ms. Christopher declined suddenly and rapidly starting Tuesday, when she was unsteady on her feet (never a good sign for a cat, one of the most surefooted creatures on Earth) and not inclined to eat, through Wednesday night, when I coaxed her to chow down on some Meow Mix lobster & crab combo even though she was having trouble walking, through Thursday morning, when I put her down on the floor (after keeping watch over her all night and getting not a wink of sleep) and watching her try to stand, cry out in pain and sit back down.

Superbadfriend told me a few days ago that Christopher would let me know when the time had come. She was right.

I kept her comfortable for the remaining hours before dawn, made the earliest appointment I could with the vet (who was as heartbroken as I was at this sad, sudden turn of events) and got her there by cab as quickly as possible (rush-hour traffic nothwithstanding). The vet made a brief examination, determined that Christopher's liver had finally given out and did the only thing left that we could do for her--end her suffering.

I would later take Chris down to Mom's house and, with my brother's help, lay her to rest, with one of her favorite catnip toys tucked between her paws, in the backyard, just a few feet away from Gray Cat (my Russian Blue who made it to 20 years old before having to be put down in 1997), Monkey (Mom's cat who passed last year) and several other family pets. I went to work for a few hours--sick as it sounds, the distraction was welcome--and finally, regretfully returned La Casa del Terror, which still smelled strongly of sick cat on a day that was too cool for open windows.

Olivia ran up to me and begged for food and attention, but then started searching the apartment for Christopher, looking under the bed and couch (two of Chris's favorite hiding places), around corners, in the litter pan. The two cats didn't like each other much, but they'd been roommates for nearly four years and Li'L O couldn't understand why the big fluffball wasn't there. "She's not coming back," I explained to her as calmly as I could through tears. "It's just you and me for now." And there were phone calls and messages from friends from coast to coast, grieving along with me.

The hardest part, though, was the minutes spent in the examination room, comforting my poor, dying Girlish Girl--my friend who'd blessed my life with unconditional love for 13 of her 15 years--while the vet and her assistant administered the muscle relaxant to ease her pain and the final injection to end it. The whole time, the vet, the assistant and I stroked Christopher's fur, telling her what a good, sweet kitty she was, even well after she couldn't hear or feel us anymore.

And so she was, as anyone who ever met her--and quite a few who didn't--knew well.

Way Over Yonder

Lyrics by Carole King

Way over yonder is a place that I know
Where I can see shelter from hunger and cold
And the sweet-tastin' good life is so easily found
Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound

I know when I get there, the first thing I'll see
Is the sun shining golden, shining right down on me
Then trouble's gonna lose me, worry leave me behind
And I'll stand up proudly in a true peace of mind

Way over yonder is a place I have seen
It's a garden of wisdom from some long ago dream

Maybe tomorrow I'll find my way
To the land where the honey runs in rivers each day
And the sweet-tastin' good life is so easily found
Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound
Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound


At just before nine this morning, a sweet old bird flew home.

My thanks to everyone who offered prayers and best wishes for Ms. Christopher--we both appreciated it.

Ms. Christopher
(1993-2008)

Sick Old Bird Update #6

The appointment with the vet Saturday morning did not go well.

Due to vomiting spells Thursday and Friday nights, Ms. Christopher lost even more weight--she's now down to 7.5 pounds. Worse, she'd been very lethargic Friday night, not wanting to eat or socialize or do anything but sit in one spot and stare into the distance. It looked like she was getting ready to check out. It scared me. I cried. A lot.

Worse (yes, it does get worse before it gets better), when the vet palpated Christopher's abdomen, she felt a mass she hadn't felt previously (probably because Chris weighed more the last time the vet palpated her). A mass usually translates to a tumor. A growth. Cancer. But right now, that's not even her biggest problem. She's in no shape for surgery or chemo--she needs to gain weight or, at the bare minimum, stop losing it.

The vet and I discussed medications. The vomiting and loose bowel movements were costing her any gains in weight or nutrition, so the vet changed her antibiotic to an antidiarrheal and added and antivomiting tablet to the mix. I also mentioned that she seemed better after receiving steriod shots, so the vet assigned a twice-a-day steriod (which, as a side benefit, also stimulates appetite and thirst).

Lastly, the vet was very concerned with Chris's hydration, so she asked if I'd be comfortable giving subcutaneous fluids at home--in other words, hooking Chris up to an IV every other day. I said I'd have no problem with it and did a successful test run on the examination table.

I took Chris home by cab, let her loose in the living room of La Casa del Terror and laid down to cry for a while.

I had previously arranged to go see Quarantine with Dee and JB (Christopher's original owner), so I got up, showered off and gladly embraced the distraction. After the movie (which is really good in a "If Cloverfield had been about zombies instead of a giant fucking monster" kind of way) and a fine dinner at the Daily Bar & Grill, I went home, gave Chris her evening meds and syringe of stinky sick kitty food and settled in for Earth vs. the Flying Saucers on Svengoolie.

I cried some more, but my tears were slowed a bit by Chris herself--she still wasn't inclined to eat much on her own, but her bowel movements had steadied out (looking more like real poop instead of pure liquid), she didn't throw up at all (and hasn't since Friday night), and, most importantly, I think, she was much more alert and active than she'd been the previous couple of days. She was walking around the apartment more and came over to jump in my lap, where she stayed for quite some time.

Sunday morning, I got up early to feed both kitties and medicate Chris, and afterward I brought Chris back to bed with me. She curled up under my left arm, purring loudly and smiling noticably. She stayed only for an hour before jumping down from the bed, but for that hour she was the Christopher I knew and loved so much, not the shambling ghost her illness had made her. I still cried, and really had a hard time holding it together at Mom's house last night (her cats, sensing my emotions, all took turns spending time with me, inadvertently making things that much worse). Back at La Casa, though, Chris was still alert, pooping closer to normal and not tossing her kitty cookies.

Even better, she made more of an effort to eat, and returned to the bowl several times to nibble a little more. If nothing else, she's acting more like her normal self for the moment--and for the moment, I'll take it.

This morning, after feeding and medicating, I gave Christopher her first subcutaneous fluid dose, with the patient sitting on a blanket atop a couple of storage containers and the IV hanging from the coat rack. It's really pretty easy and entirely painless to her:

1. Pinch the skin on the back to form a tent.

2. Insert the needle at a 45-degree downward angle (so as to not punch through the skin or accidentally hit bone or muscle).

3. Adjust the needle to be sure it's all the way in.

4. Start the fluid flowing and make sure the cat sits still during the procedure.

All pretty straightforward--except for the one point I forgot to check off my list:

5. Make sure your other, younger, more rambunctious cat is secured in another room so she can't "assist" during the procedure.

Woopsy.

Just after I'd unlocked the fluid flow control and started the hydration process, Olivia grabbed the dangling line and tried to run off with it. After I yelled something suitably awful at her and chased her away, I brought the line up out of her reach and had to reinsert the needle (it had come loose enough to send a couple tablespoons of fluid down Christopher's back and onto the comfy blanket). Fortunately, we were very early in the process, so I was able to get the rest of the fluid into Chris without incident.

When I left La Casa this morning, I made a point of petting both kitties on my way out the door, but especially my sick old bird. She's being so good, trying so hard. Neither of us is ready to give up yet. So we won't.