But What Will Boris Have Tomorrow - Oh.

I've started taking milk to work, just so I can have a decent cup of tea around 3 pm every day. It perks me up and helps me face the rest of the workday.

My fridge is currently a totally milk-free zone and I went to the work fridge to fetch out my little carton of milk. Because after all, Boris has to have his milk every morning. It's part of the routine.

The Routine (Morning)

Feed the cats canned food.
Boris gets his own can. The others get half a can each.
Boris wants up on the kitchen counter.
I lift him up on the kitchen counter.
I turn on the kitchen faucet. Not too fast, not too slow and at exactly the right angle.
I start my coffee and make sure Boris's little blanket is warming behind the coffee pot.
After I've had one cup of coffee, I mush up Boris's food with some water and nuke it for 13 seconds.
He pushes me aside to get to it.
I take my coffee and go back to the living room.
Then the meowing starts.
I go back and offer up Whiskas Temptations, which stirs up everyone.
Finally, after I've finished my breakfast cereal, Boris laps up the last of the milk.

So this afternoon I thought, I'd better get the carton of milk from the work fridge because otherwise, Boris won't have - oh.

There will be more moments like this.

For some reason, I've never let a cat go as peacefully as this. I've learned not to cry before or while they're being put down. That just distresses them more. I think it was because I'd spent the afternoon with him and saw how very much in pain he was and the last shot was a blessing.

I miss him. I miss them all.

Remind me to tell you about Death and the TV.

Boris 1995 - 2013

Boris died last evening.

He had spent the week declining dramatically more every day. I came home early yesterday and wasn't able to do anything to make him comfortable.

I'd already made an appointment with Dr. Knightly. Boris walked into the cat carrier as calmly as he always did. (What's in here? Oh, my doom! Why didn't you tell me?)

Dr. Knightly gave Boris a whacking great double dose of morphine to Boris (She said, "I wanted to make sure he wasn't in any pain at all." Yet she refused when I laid bare my arm for her, laughing a little.) He was able to have about ten pain-free minutes with me. I watched as his eyes dilated. But the whole time, I was speaking softly to him, telling him that I loved him and that he was a good, good cat.

Right now I don't have the energy to tell you about all of the wonderful things he did, how Boris was uniquely Boris, what made him special and precious to me. Someday I will have the energy to tell you, but not right now.

How very odd it is to have an even number of cats! How strange to have four and to be able to reel off their names! Although I think it will be awhile before Boris doesn't come to the first of that list.

A Lot About Nothing

Usually at this time of the morning, I'm dressed for work and getting ready to go. But since we're enjoying a pea-soup fog, I'm waiting until it's vaguely daylight outside.

Cousin Karen Update

I've been thinking about this hard, the whole situation. I realized that part of my initial enthusiasm in lending a hand was selfish. I have a hard time admitting when I'm lonely. It's just background noise at this point. I remembered that it doesn't take much for my gregariousness quota to be full. I'm not sure this would work on a long-term basis.

I also realized that my Cousin Danny is legally her next of kin. So I started texting him the other day. He sounded far more rational than she did. (It's not her fault.) He sounded fairly confident about the loss mitigation/mediation program they're going through, but I got no other details. I haven't been able to reach him to actually speak to him.

----------------

Emma Update

Emma had been ill for over a week, unable to keep anything down. When I talked to her Monday evening, she sounded like she was at death's door. Sven was at home, so I told her to get dressed and let Sven take her to the tiny emergency room they have in Podunkville. Astoundingly, she did. They gave her IV fluids and sent her home with anti-barf meds.

---------------

Boris Update

Friends, he is slowing down. He's no longer grooming himself, but he still has an appetite and still loves to cuddle. He has a jones for Whiskas Temptations. He likes to get brushed. So he gets all of these things in abundance.

Everyone else is A-OK, although I suspect Dylan has arthritis in his front paws. It's hard to realize that the youngest one, Blue is 10 this year. And kind of scary, too.

-------------

Me Update

I'm tired of being tired. I'm very grateful for finally achieving a balanced mood, but the balance has to be carefully watched, all the time. One side effect of all of these drugs is to make me sleepy and/or fatigued. By the time I get home, I'm lucky to pour a bowl of cereal for myself and dole out cat food for the kitties. I get into my jammies, watch a movie, and fall into bed.

There has to be and is a better way. It's all very simple. I need to make myself a cup of coffee around 3 - 4 p.m. Good coffee, not that in-the-office bile. And while I normally take coffee black, in the afternoons it has to have some 1/2 & 1/2 in it. This is sketchy at work, although the company graciously provides milk and 1/2 & 1/2. I go in at 9 am and the fridge is full. I go in at 3 pm to the kitchen and there's 1/4 of an inch of skim milk left. The easy and rational solution is for me to take my own but disguise it so no one will think she can "borrow" it and no one will mind.

There is a serious misunderstanding at work of what's yours and what's mine, especially when it comes to the contents of the refrigerator. And if this is the biggest problem I have at work, I am truly blessed.

I have projects and things I want to accomplish at home but I'm getting exactly nowhere with them because all I do at home is sleep. At this point, I doubt Cousin Karen will come to live with me, but I still want to sort out the house. It's needed sorting for a couple of years now and I want to do it. Before, I didn't care but for some reason (head meds?) I care now. I see what needs to be done, have a reasonable plan in place for doing it, but when I lift a hand, it's usually to change into my pajamas. Wake up, Becs, wake up!

Just a Glimpse

I am now at the point in mourning for Taylor where the heavy ache is gone. I still haven't removed all of her stuff from the house, but a good bit of it (medical stuff) has gone in the trash.

This is the stage where I expect to see her. And because I expect to see her, my mind puts her there for a second. I always make the same sound when I think I see her - an unsurprised "oh" - which is followed by a surprised "oh".

But the other cats have finally realized that Taylor is not coming back. I have rarely seen such relaxed cats. There was always a definite tension when Taylor walked into the room.

Lately, Blue has taken to flinging himself on me and this is quite a moment considering that he weighs at least twenty pounds. I have been able to pay more attention to Boris, who is very happy to have it. Dylan, Sophie, Brianna, they're all coming around, but I have noticed a weird dynamic between Sophie and Brianna. I think they're trying to sort out who's the Queen of the Hill. Sophie's quick but Brianna is so crazy that you can't anticipate her next move.

And me, I find myself with an unclenched neck. It's easy to take care of one sick old cat (Boris), especially is he's cooperative and good-natured.

They are pretty demanding when they first see me - food! Give us food!

Something which I myself would enjoy now.

Hm. Scrambled eggs. Now I need a place to hide away, oh I believe in scrambled eggs.

Boris Leads Me on the Right Path

Last night as we - that is, the cats and I - were having our usual luv-bor-ee, Boris started doing a "Timmy fell down the well" head nod toward the bathroom. Well. This was odd.

I followed him and he pranced in a little circle on the tiled floor, meowing up at me. I looked over at the coat hook on the back of the door, where his subcu fluid kit is.

What? What's that, Boris? You need fluids?

So damned if I didn't sit down with him in my lap, needle just under his skin. When he'd had his usual 100 ccs, he got up. I turned off the flow and put the tubing up around the bag.

Content and no doubt full, he waited for me to open the door and off he skedaddled.

If only I can get him to find a way to do it himself. He already seems pretty close. Boris really is an amazing pussycat.

Weekend Round-up

Diego

I consulted my expert on all things Hispanic /Latino, Rosie, regarding Diego. Her response:

"Dominican men are very friendly towards women. He does not feel sorry for you. He is showing you his rico suave moves that his father taught him, as his grandfather taught him and as his great-grandfather taught him. If you like the look of him, feel free, but just make sure that he is not married, has a baby mama or a girlfriend. You do not want her knocking on your door at two in the morning."

And so there went my three second fantasy of being Salma Hayak in a flouncy white dress, dancing with Diego on a patio lit with multi-colored lights. Oh well. Wasn't it pretty to think so?

-----
Stinky Me

I have noticed that as I am getting to be an old bat my skin is getting thinner. It's more sensitive than it used to be. It takes longer for cat scratches to heal.

Also? It hurts to take a shower. No, the water is not scalding hot, yes, the shower is set on the rainforest trickle setting, and still it hurts. I no longer shower daily but scrub the smelly bits with a fresh washcloth and soap.

I think this calls for a change of method, so will begin taking warm baths in the evenings before bed.

Meanwhile - dang, that hurts.

----------
Boris and Taylor Health Report

All seems to be going smoothly. I have to keep an eye on them, of course, and give them meds they don't want. Boris is terrific about getting sub q fluids.
------------

One of My Favorite Lines in Western Literature


"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

I just re-read The Great Gatsby. The writing at the start of the book is just mesmerizing. Once the story gets going, the language isn't as lyrical, but there's a feeling that nothing can stop the story. Fate is fate.

And Nick Carraway is not the innocent bystander / narrator I remembered him as being. He didn't go forward to the police and say, "Daisy was driving" while everyone was blaming Gatsby. No, they all closed ranks against the outsider. In fact, Nick was a bit of a hypocrite.

See you 20th Century American Lit tomorrow!

Home, But Hardly Free

Boris is home. He is doing much better. He is bright eyed and wants to go flapping with his flat paws all over the house, but for now, he is restricted to my bedroom.

Dylan is going to be mighty jealous.

But I need to see if Borry's bowels behave. If he eats the many treasures laid before him. So far, he's made decent headway into half a can of Hills Pricey K/D. I know that it's a lofty goal, but I would like to see his weight go from 9 lbs. to 10 lbs.

Dr. Knightly, who I should start calling Dr. Darling, came in to brief me. "I just didn't want them to throw your cat at you along with a bag of meds and say, 'Here ya go'." And really, that means a lot to me. She told me to up Borry's subcu fluids. And this. And that. And oh, Taylor should be getting Lactulose, a stool softener, because she get plugged up, too. All I can foresee is one sticky mess and me covered with orange medicine and black fur.

You know, for years I've had young cats. People used to say, "Oh, they must be so much to take care of!" And I would demur and say, "Not really." Now that we're all getting older, it is getting to be a very much bigger deal.

It cost nearly a week's pay to ransom him. This is why I must keep him in good health. Because an hour a day spent looking after the health of the kitties will save me a minor fortune.

Right now, Borry's list of meds:

Ringers lactate (subcu fluid)
Pepcid
Doxycycline (sp?)
Lactulose
Hill's K/D special renal diet (ongoing)
And something else I can't remember at the moment.

In fact, the anything that isn't ongoing is the Doxycycline.

The minute Dr. Knightly put Boris in my arms, he started to purr. I can put a price on that, but it's very, very high. Very.

Borry's home. All is well. For now.

Boris is in the Hospital

He's plugged up again. Big time. Poor guy. No wonder he wasn't eating. No room.

Not quite as congested today.

He's still big-eyed Boris.

5-7% dehydrated.

And in the hospital.

I'm expecting Child Protective Services at any moment.

The Rearrangement

The rearrangement of cats on various totem poles has begun. Slowly. But it has started.

I'm worried that Brianna and Sophie aren't around much. I can always find Brianna in the basement and she's always happy to be found. Sophie is like a ghost cat. Here, then gone, not to be found in the interim.

Even Taylor seems at loose ends. I think she's busy terrorizing Brianna.

Dylan is a little extra-clingy. Blue has discovered the vacancy.

The one who initially had the hardest time was Boris. Every morning when I sat on the couch, it would be Dylan on my lap, then Gus to the left of me and Boris to the left of him. I've been giving Boris extra attention because he was so sadly lost. But now he's discovered the empty spot where Gussy used to sit and has come closer.

It continues.

And as for me, I still have not realized the full extent of how Gussy ran my life.

I've begun clearing out the many spaces, blankets, special places where Gussy ate to get away from the other cats, however briefly.

It reminds me of recovering from the death of a person who died after a long illness. You don't realize that you have pills, boxes of hypodermics, bottles of medicine, special pillows, special equipment, wash cloths, wipes, blankets that were used to make the patient rest a little easier. You're unsure of how exactly to pack it all away, but you know that you have to.

The New World Order

I knew Gus was the kingpin and lynch pin of the household, but I didn't truly understand how much.

This morning, the gang is at sixes and sevens.

When I woke up, Taylor was nowhere to be found. She had become a bed cat, centering herself in the exact center of the bed, no matter where I happened to be. Instead, Sophie was on the bed. Boris was in the Big Chair, still making room for Gus. Blue came out of hiding. Brianna showed up from the basement long enough to eat breakfast. And Dylan, of course, was still most emphatically Dylan.

I hadn't realized that Gus was such a talker. The house is oddly quiet. I am not being harried from place to place to do his bidding. It's more of a relief than I thought. And yet, I miss it.

As for me, I am castigating myself for doing it too soon, for making excuses about being at the end of my rope, at dreading the next week or two when I would do nothing but urge Gus to eat and drink, at following him around to wipe off the blood on his nose.

There is no perfect time for any of this.

And the little world that will reassemble itself in my house will be far from perfect, too.

Now the Bad News

Thursday night, Katy threw up bright red blood. On Friday morning, I took her to the vet, first thing.

X-rays show that Katy may have pneumonia.

Or she may have lung cancer.

She hasn't been on anti-biotics long enough to know which, but probably this Wednesday, I'll take her back for more x-rays.

Also?

Taylor has not sprung back. In fact, she may be going to the vet even sooner than Katy. I'm worried about her. She's back to hiding in the basement.

Sigh.

At the vet's. Hunky Vet's sister said, "Xman was here on Thursday. Had a kitty put down." It turned out to be Xman's favorite cat. I think he probably still felt the same about the cat as he did when I knew him. He madly adored that cat and had saved him from death not once but twice.

She said that he'd thought about having the cat cremated but when he found out how much it was, he took the kitty's body home. I'm willing to bet he buried the kitty in his back yard.

Hunky Vet's sister said he was there by himself. And I said, "So now he's a sad, lonely, cheap bastard."

But I am sorry about the cat.

But not too much. Because he used to beat the living hell out of poor Borish.

Every Day Is Caturday 1

Here's the status of my brood:

1. Gus is still with us, which amazes me. He's still getting thinner, though. When I was at BJs, I bought baby food called "Yummy Meals", with which Gus agrees whole-heartedly. He's gotten a lot louder in the mornings and sometimes his yelling sounds...pained. He's decided that he must have a morning cuddle and will yell at me until I pick him up and hold him against me.
2. Boris is not only a water-fiend now, but he expects to be brushed while he's up near the sink. Hm. Wonder how that happened? Could it be that I did it once? He's gotten smaller over the past year and his bedraggledness worried me. He still has a good appetite, still meows like a kitten, and still walks on the flat of his feet where most other cats walk on their tip-toes.
3. Katy's arthritis bothers her a lot. She has it in her front paws, in her shoulders and elbows. She is the most picked-on cat in my household. Sophie loves to stalk and chase her. Katy lives in MD's old room, either in the closet or on my desk. She is disappointed every time she walks in here and find me and not MD.
4. Taylor has made some strides over the last year. I can pick her up without being afraid that she'll tear my face off. She wants desperately to be loved. When I pick her up, her front paws immediately clutch around my neck, she presses her little body as hard as she can against me and meows in my ear. She's my enforcer. If I yell at a cat, Taylor jumps down from me and goes after that cat. Which makes me a lot more reluctant to yell at anyone.
5. Phoebe's fat gene is working overtime. She mostly lives on my bed, has no interest in anything but dry food, yet she's nearly spherical. She is beautiful, a mostly-grey tortie, and when I talk to her and say her name, her head always pops up and she makes a "Mrrr?" sound. I love that. She will also give me forehead a bath anytime she's near it.
6. Dylan is jealous of everybody who gets near me. He will launch himself to chase any cat that I've just been petting. He still comes to bed with me every night but lately his favorite spot is in my office, next to the electric piano.
7. Brianna. Maybe not quite so brainless. She has a perfect nest for herself in the basement, old comforters that she knocked down and shaped into one of the warmest places in the house. If she's not there, she's trying to snuggle up with Gus, who only wants to snuggle up with me.
8. Sophie lets me touch her! She lets me pet her! I can even pick her up and hold her (tightly) against me. She lives to chase Katy. Sophie now hops up on the arm of the sofa to get pet. Her fur is so soft, thick, and silky that I have to rub hard to get her to purr.
9. Blue is acquiring nicknames at last. Blue-ster. Brewster. The Bluesman. He is huge. If he wasn't such a coward, he could take down all the cats just by sitting on them. He loves to be picked up, but the cat has to weigh over twenty pounds. It takes some forethought to pick up Blue and cuddle him.

And yes, sometimes I have to count them. And yes, I frequently go through a roll-call when I'm talking to them. "Blue! Boris! Taylor! Taylor! Stop it!" And Blue and Boris looked mystified and Taylor chases whichever one is nearer.

Every Day Is Caturday

The cats are in a delirium of joy. I've been home for two whole days and they love it.

Everybody's happy. And why not? I, their slave, am here to do their furry bidding.

Cats. Cats. More cats.

When I wake up, I'm usually surrounded by Phoebe, Gus, Dylan, Katy, with Taylor bitching somewhere on the side. When I get out of bed, I'm followed by Sophie and led by Gus.

Sitting here at my desk, playing video games, Blue came in and pawed at me until I picked him up. He sat on my chest, all 25+ lbs of him, and started to do a blissful little kneading dance. Then, drooling, he collapsed on me, paws still going back and forth. I put him down. He got back up. I put him down. He got back up again.

Boris stood at the kitchen sink, meowing to be picked up and for me to turn the faucet on. When he didn't quit meowing and head-butting me, I got the brush and began grooming him.

Even Sophie is coming around. I just heard her in the living room, on the loving seat, meowing so I would come pet her.

I think we're all in for a rude shock come Monday morning.

Is She Poor Widdle Becs? Oo, 'es She Is.

Four and half years ago, I sprained my ankle. MD was living here at the time. I was traipsing merrily down the steps, missed one and went shrieking down the rest, to land all my considerable weight squarely atop my out-turned right ankle.

MD came running. I checked myself for broken things before moving. And then I saw my ankle. Within the space of about a minute, it became three times its normal size and a shade of blue that should only be seen in marbled bookend papers.

I went to the doc in the box (the same one who couldn't diagnose Cat Scratch Fever) because my lousy insurance accepted them. The doctor x-rayed my foot. I was hobbling around and because I was biting the inside of my cheek fairly hard, didn't cry.

Dr. Ahmed studied my foot from many different directions and finally put an extremely flimsy AirCast on it and said, "I don't trust you on crutches, so off you go." (Middle finger salute to you, bub.)

The next day was the start of a temp gig that I desperately hoped would turn into something permanent. I knew I couldn't call in sick, although the doctor had told me to stay off my foot. So I bandaged the thing as best I could, took more Tylenol than I should and made my way verrry slowwwly into the office.

Months passed. Years passed. And I kept getting these weird twinges in my ankle. The doc in the box rolled his eyes and said, "There's nothing wrong, but if you insist on seeing an orthopedist..." and wrote a referral to someone in The Hood. I didn't go.

Another year passed. I finally have decent insurance, so I made an appointment with one of the guys recognized as one of the best orthopedic surgeons in Jersey. He looked at the x-rays he had taken and said, "There's nothing wrong. I don't know, maybe there's a little splinter or something we could get out arthroscopically, but I'm not seeing anything."

So take I took all these x-rays and my hobbling bad-ass self to a podiatrist in the same medical group as Dr. Macho. He had x-rays taken and when he came into the room with them, looked pale. He seemed to barely stop short of saying, "OMFG!"

"There is definitely something wrong here. I wish you had come to me first. You tore three ligaments and the way they've healed has made your ankle unstable." (Woo hoo! Another unstable part of me!) "So we'll try cortisone, and we'll try something else, and after that is surgery."

I said, "Can't I just buy some ugly shoes?"

He said it wouldn't really do any good.

I have to admit, I was so, so impressed when he walked into the room and the first place on my ankle he touched was exactly, precisely where I've been telling doctors for four years that it hurts. "How did you do that?" I said. "How did you know? No one else could find it."

"There's a lot of scar tissue in there. That's why it hurts."

And he said I have plantar fasciitis in both feet, too, then put cortisone shots into my feet (I repeat, put hypodermic needles into the insides of my bare-naked unprotected feet), and suddenly, I had warm plaster of paris gauze soaking on my feet, to have orthotics made. I would much rather have the ugly shoes. They're cheaper, if my insurance company doesn't cough up the bucks for this.

And then I was having weird tape put all over my feet and sent on my way until next week, when I get more cortisone shot into my feet. Then we start on my ankle.

Look, if I means I can walk up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art from Penn Station again, I am all for it. This guy better deliver.

My feet still hurt, but in a different way. I have to keep the tape on for two days, so tomorrow when I shower, I have been advised to duct tape grocery bags onto my ankles.

I mean it. This had better work.

Oh - and a miracle occurred overnight. Boris is back to his old self and I am now ever-vigilant to keep the water bowls clean and filled and the cat boxes scooped.

So we're getting better. Slowly. But better.

Shock! Horror!

Shock!

Boy Wonder is jumping ship. Not only that, but he's going to Seattle. I mean, from Jersey to Seattle...whoa, Nelly.

The shock of this is that a great deal of knowledge about Unnamed Co goes with him because he'll never have the time to disgorge all he knows about the products he has coming through the pipeline.

I knew he was going to go eventually, but I'd pegged him at another two years and no longer than that.

When he told me he was leaving, I once more had the "I don't think that's very funny" reaction. He doesn't give a flying, uh, fig that he will be leaving a number of projects simply hanging.

Somehow, Fireman Fred had gotten the impression that I dislike Boy Wonder. I know what Boy Wonder is now, so not much of what he does shocks me, but personally, morally, I think it's reprehensible. Still, I respect him enormously for his energy (which scares me more than a little, actually), and his tremendous hard work.

There has been some wrangling going on between FF and BW lately, lots of closed doors and raised voices.

I wonder who will take BW's place. I know for the interim, it will most likely be BW's boss. I have done some idle speculation that they might tap Girl Wonder, but I'm not so sure she'd take it. I don't know that she'd be that good at it, although she is an absolute wizard project wallah.

So. In three weeks, Boy Wonder will be just another empty office and a huge amount of water cooler talk.

--------------------------

Horror!

Boris is constipated again.

I blame myself. I haven't been vigilant about keeping the water fountain going, not at all, and when I noticed that the water bowls had been kicked around, should have known that Boris was drinking and drinking and drinking. Or at least desperately trying to.

During lunch, I went to the grocery store and returned with tuna packed in oil, squash and ham in baby food form, and the desperate hope that these home measures might do some good.

Not. When I got home, he was hiding in a tiny corner of the living room, behind the cat tree.

I tried him on some ham, squash and olive oil, which he liked, but then he ran and hid again.

I got the fountain going again, but no dice. Finally, I crept underneath the cat tree with a bowl of water and kept jiggling it so he could see the waterline. He drank and drank and drank. And is still hiding.

So I made an appointment with the vet tomorrow night. Poor Borsh. Poor Becs.

This will be a lesson we will both pay a hefty price for.

Ick! Bald Pussycat!

You probably don't get this reference unless you hung around with a big hairy hippie guy in Richmond, VA in 1975.

I, far more innocent than I believed myself to be, was given an education in underground comics, among other things.

Does anyone remember Vaughn Bode? Big hairy hippie guy collected Bode's works and I would faithfully read everthing, half-shocked, half-amused. Of course, Vaughn was dead by then, having strangled himself in his quest to become the Godhead.

The cartoon frame I remember is the intrepid adventurer character encountering a seven year old girl who wants to seduce him. She lifts her dress and Intrepid Adventurer yelps, "Ick! Bald pussy!" and runs away.

Yesterday morning as I was petting Boris, I looked at his back. It's true, I've been pretty faithful with the new brush and all the kitties seem to love it, but I've gotten very close to denuding Boris's back. "Ick! Bald pussycat," I said and went to examine Gus, who's also been getting a lot of grooming. Yep, he looks like a candidate for Fur Club for Cats.

Um....maybe I'll just put the brush down for now....

Poor Borsh

Oh, poor Boris. I brought him home last night and he immediately headed for my bed. When the other cats came around him to see what was going on, he took refuge under one of the bedside tables.

Eventually, I checked in on him and he was on the bed, on a stack of pillows as he usually is.

When I went to bed, I gently moved the covers and gave the pillows to him for the evening, but he decided he wanted to cuddle up with me. This has never happened before.

Dylan is normally on my left side when I sleep but Boris had settled there and no way was I going to move him. Instead, I turned on my back and Dylan curled into my right pit.

Boris sighed and put his head on my shoulder and that's how we went to sleep.

The morning, I terrorized him with medicine, then coaxed him to eat some of the yummy expensive food, but all in all, he wasn't getting off the pillows.

When I got home, he was still on the pillows and his saucer of food was empty and he'd had some water from the bowl I put on the table next to the bed.

I'm keeping watch on his, erm, output and so far am still concerned.

For all his bigness, for all his silliness, Boris really is a delicate creature.

He was found in an overgrown, weeded lot in the ghetto. A woman who lived nearby heard a bunch of kittens mewing. Then a few. Then only one. She went into the overgrown grass, gently, carefully parting the grass with an old pitchfork. On her last pass, when she raised the pitchfork, there was Boris sitting on the end of it.

When I brought him into Casa Melancholia, the first thing he did was take a header off the stairs and knock himself out for about ten seconds. I'm convinced he lost about thirty IQ points from that fall.

I first met him at Hunky Vet's office, where they were trying to find a home for him. One of the tech's put him in my lap and I was a goner.

He immediately reared back and began washing his big, spindly black foot. I put my palm against his back and felt him purr. "This," I said, "is going to be one great cat." And so he was. And so he is.

I'm going now. I know a kitty who needs a little extra loving tonight.

These Pipes Are Clean

Boris is home. He is hiding underneath one of the bedside tables. I'm supposed to give him two different medicines: one is some sort of syrup and the other is a pill. I know that I will most likely be wearing both.

He's also on a special food, which is not going to last long. It's $1.15 / can and it takes three cans in the morning to divy up to everyone. Do the math and you can tell this isn't going to last.

What I may do is try to find something like clam juice and put a little Benefiber in it.

Poor guy. He must be sore and scared.

I stopped off at the bakery on my way home to recover from the shock of the bill. I can tell you with complete authority that two eclairs within the space of an hour is just a really bad idea.

Think Good Thoughts About a Pussycat

Boris (on the left) is in the hospital.

Boris is majorly constipated.

He's been feeling really miserable lately and tonight when I got home from work, he was sitting forlornly next to the litterbox, as if it were a love denied.

So I was able to get a vet appointment at the last minute and rushed Boris to the animal hospital. They're keeping him overnight.

I apologize for bringing money into everything, but it's going to cost $450 to unplug this cat. As I handed over my Visa card, I felt resigned to it all.

But I haven't given up. Not completely. Not yet. That will happen Saturday, when I take The Bullet for the 10K mile service.

I'm pretty sure Boris will come back to me healthy, exhausted, but feeling mucho mas better. Poor little Boris, who rides the short bus in life. Saucer-eyed kitty - that's how I tell which black cat I'm looking at (I have three). Big round eyes? That's Boris.

Poor Boris, I'm sorry about what the night will bring to you, but I hope in the morning you'll be all better.