Decluttering Tip

First, find an old cat in renal failure.
Second, give him access to the house.
Third, throw away everything that he pees on. Because he will.

Result:
First, less clutter in house.
Second, woman at the end of her tether.
Third, woman wondering if she's a heartless bitch to put him with a litter box, water and food in the spare bedroom overnight. Because she just can't take it anymore.

Oh, Butchy, Butch. Poor old guy. You make me want to cry.

Oh. That Again

Butchy

Yesterday I talked to Hunky Vet on the phone. In the middle of all the tumult about Gracie, I had taken Butch to the vet. And what Hunky Vet told me that I decided not to hear, was that Butch has the same thing Gracie had. He's in renal failure.

Yesterday, I made Hunky Vet spell it out for me, although I've been through this half a dozen times before. Yes, it may be that getting subcu fluids a couple of times a week could help him. On my way home from work yesterday, I picked up the kit, the line, the needles, the bag of Ringer's. In the evening, I marked out the 100 ccs where I could see it, then took Butch with me into the bathroom. The bag was hanging from a robe hook on the back of the bathroom door. I got the needle in him, started the fluid, and told him was a handsome, brave, and wonderful kitty he was.

He got tired of it just as the line reached 100 ccs. The needle popped out and we both got spritzed with the solution. Butch had a bizarre hump on his back.

This evening when I got home, he had peed. And peed. And peed. Had probably peed out last night's solution and then some.

I'm used to this now. I clean it up, spray disinfectant on it, mop it up again, spray more disinfectant, and then pick Butchy up, put him on my shoulder and tell him he is a good, good kitty.

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Lists. And Lists of Lists.

Someone who shall remain nameless mocked me recently for my lists. My lists and then my lists of lists.

There is such comfort in this. It gives the brief illusion of control where little control is to be found and heartens me to control what I can control.

Today, I realized that I don't know how on earth I'm going to afford The Temple to the Bath Goddess. I just barely stopped short of hyperventilating. I totted up all my debt, added that to it and thought, dear God. How on earth can I afford anything?

I get my gym membership at a wildly reduced rate and I have been going, so I'll keep that up. But everything else - the Sunday movie every single Sunday, the kayaking lesson, the trips into NYC, vacation, books, new clothes, they all get crossed off the budget list.

I've been here before. I know I can cope. Strangely, saving money is like dieting. You do them by not doing them, if you know what I mean. You can't actively go out and not eat. You can't actively go out and not spend money.

Then I made another list, a list of what I have. A list of things I need to do and things that will entertain me. Don't forget, I've got a piano and I'm not afraid to use it. And books and books of music. And lesson books. (Bach is hard. Did you know that? My hands, after nearly 40 years of typing, do not want to do things at the same time. They don't mind doing the same thing at the same time, but you throw a little counterpoint into it and I'm in the weeds.)

Tonight, when I came home I had such a weird mishmash of leftovers that I had to eat each item separately and I couldn't think about them all being on the same plate together. Yeah, the old OCD acts up sometimes, too.

My lists heartily remind me that I have lots and lots of clothes, that I have lots of shoes, books, videos, cats, music, and so on. It does hearten me.

How many times have I been to this place?

When I was in college, living in my own apartment.
When I was dating Xman and my long-distance phone bill was more than my rent.
When I decided to ditch Mighty Citadel the Divestiture Years, when I was going to write the great American romance, no, mystery, no, suspense novel.
When I decided to ditch Xman.
When Evil Empire laid me off.

I've been here before. It's always nice to take a break from it. Oh, I loved that freedom while it lasted.

When people say time is money, I say money is freedom.

Welcome back to this place, I say to myself. As cells go, it's really pretty comfy.

Butch

Has the same thing Gracie has.

Maybe six months.

Maybe not.

I knew when I took on so many cats that there would be years like this.

Still sucks.

Gracie Again

She's very sick. She's hiding under the bed in the basement. I can't coax her out.

Earlier in the day, she was yelling in the kitchen for something, anything. I am out of ideas.

Everyone had a little cold earlier in the week. And in the space of the week, Gracie lost every ounce she put back on since her previous trip to the vet.

I gave her medicine for a couple of days. She got stronger and got away from me.

Now she creeps deeper into the back corner of the bed.

I don't know what to do. I do know that I cannot, I truly cannot spend another thousand dollars on a cat who is so delicate.

Considering that I'm getting ready for a bathroom remodel (all going on my Visa, which is now quite hefty, thank you), this sounds callous, that I'm not even going to try to take the cat to the vet again.

I keep thinking of Polly, whose last illness sucked up the last money I had, only to be told by the emergency vet that there was no saving her. Her diabetes was out of control.

I don't know what to do. I truly don't know. I took Butch to the vet today. Butchy's been peeing all over the place, in copious amounts and drinking and eating as if there would be no food or water left in the world if he didn't nail it. Hunky Vet cut me a huge break by not charging me for the ultrasound. Butchy remains a cat of mystery. He's not diabetic. He's not in kidney failure or liver failure or heart failure. $200 to be told my cat is healthy.

$1000 more to save a cat who can't be saved?

I can't do it. I just can't do it. And I hate myself for it.

Timmy Fell Down the Well!

No word on Gracie this morning. Updates to follow.

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Taylor is quite possibly the most neurotic cat I've ever met. She clings to me for dear life sometimes when there's nothing amiss. She's just freaked out and wants to hang onto me. Sometimes she goes postal on the other cats because she just feels like it.

Sometimes I pick her up, look at her and say, "Mom? Are you in there?" because this is the kind of stuff my mother used to pull. It's uncanny.

This morning when I got out of bed, Taylor was all over me. Meowing, making figure eights around my ankles, not responding much to my petting her. She kept meowing and dancing in front of me.

I went into the kitchen and started doling out the saucers of canned food. I looked on the table where Butch usually resides and he wasn't there. Well, sometimes he gets freaked out and takes the high ground on the fridge. Nope. Not there. And sometimes, he'll go into the spare room where there are a couple of litter boxes and get stuck there while Blue lays siege to the hallway. But Butch wasn't in the spare room.

I have never known Butch to miss a meal. I called his name and he didn't come running, as he usually does. Meanwhile, Taylor was constantly meowing at my feet. "Taylor, shut up" got no results. I checked the basement. When Butch heads for the basement, he sits in the middle of it, not quite knowing what to do with himself. And again, Blue, his mortal enemy, is waiting at the top of the stairs. Butch was not in the basement.

I checked everywhere. I couldn't find the cat. And Taylor was nearly in hysterics at this point, so much so that I wouldn't pick her up. If she gets that wound up, she doesn't know what to do with herself and lashes out at anyone/thing.

Finally, I headed back to the kitchen. I called, "Butchy!" and Taylor screeched out at the same time.

There was one instant of silence and in that silence, I heard, "Me-urr?"

I went over to the small china hutch in one corner of the kitchen. Butch had fallen behind it and had no way to get out. I pulled the hutch forward, Butch leaped out and headed right for his food on the table.

Taylor then disappeared. No doubt she was thinking, stupid humans. How many times did I have to tell her that Butch fell behind the china cabinet?