The Nuclear Option

I am going to be vulgar and discuss money.

Right now, I have a very handy $1,700 in my checking account. I am also $18,000 in debt on my home equity line of credit with not much further to go than that with my HELOC. Virtually nothing in savings.

My mortgage payment is $1,200 / month.

I have Unemployment Insurance of $17,000 available to me in weekly chunks of $650, but that won't start until May 3.

I have nothing of value to sell. At the moment, I am not going to go back into pet sitting or having a roommate. If I got a part time job, that could extend the money available to me. I'm thinking retail although I know I don't have the physical stamina to do it.

So the nuclear option, the drop the big one now option, is getting rid of most of my crap, packing up the remnants and putting it into storage, and moving in with Cousin Kay in Richmond. I haven't mentioned it to her yet. I think I'm waiting for clearer signals. After all, it's only been a week. I've had three phone calls of interest (one offered me $17/hour less than what I had been making and I can't live on that, roommate or no roommate). I need to get back to them because I think the people who had been interested went with another candidate and I want to know officially if that's the case.

I have considered suicide but I won't do it unless I know the cats are squared away. And must talk with Dr. A and with a priest.

I've also done all kinds of practical things. I can go to the local food pantry tomorrow. My phone bill has been immediately sliced in half. The garbage pickup company has reduced my rate somewhat. Comcast gave me bupkis. I am considering getting rid of that but that's my only job hunting resource. Yes, I can go to the library and Panera. It's still an option.

Although it's chilly in the house this morning at 64 degrees, I have turned off the heat and told myself to like it or lump it.

I could retire in June but the money available to me wouldn't be enough to cover my expenses here. I would still have to move.

I have a good support system. My pal from the old, old workplace, Emma, the Queen Bee and especially the Prince Consort who is giving me all kinds of great pointers about interviewing techniques.

Oddly, I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel like I'm looking at things objectively. I could live like this for maybe another three months, then drastic action must be taken.

Oh, must finish my will first. Who gets how much of this piece of pathetic pie? I feel like all I would leave behind are debts.

Maybe I will drop the big one. But not just yet.

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.

No Movie

Well, "Sense and Sensibility" for comfort. I need comfort.

Working with Dr. A., I have learned that any financial shock sends me into a tailspin.

I'd forgotten that in June, I'd made some tweaks to my car insurance. And now I find it's due on Dec. 23.

This morning, I realized that Taylor had not been terrorizing the household. I found her snugged against my pillow. She was hot. She was dehydrated. I made a vet appointment and left work about 15 minutes early to go fetch the cat.

When I got home to fetch her, she was still hiding, but she didn't feel quite so warm. Still, I'm glad I took her because she's mucho plugged up again. To the tune of $700 plugged up.

Honestly, it's Boris one month, Taylor the next. I don't know how long I can keep on doing this. Will I know when I've reached the tipping point? What if I already have? Can I possibly bring myself to desert a cat just because she's bankrupting me?

As usual, I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

Other things on my mind:

I'm thinking of resigning from the Speechifiers. This has been on my mind for a month or two now. While I enjoy the meetings, I absolutely dread the time leading up to them. The roster isn't full. For the past two months, most of the time, I've been the sole officer at the meeting. (One had a family crisis out of town and a vacation, la-de-fucking-dah, and the Queen Bee's mum passed.) There is an officer's meeting coming up soon. Too soon to decide. Maybe they'll kick me out.

Mostly, I'm just tired of trying to make headway and falling further and further behind. Carried out to sea in a rip tide named Taylor.

In Which I Amuse the Population

Going through BJs today, when I stopped at the display of cat litter, an older Latino gentleman who had obviously lived a hard life, was smiling at me.

He watched me haul a 45 lb bag of cat litter to the cat. ("Mira! Una blanca trabaja!") I heard him say something that ended with "gato". I searched the data bank and came up with -

"Nueve."

"Nueve!"

"Si."

Then he laughed a tired "hee hee hee" and said "Nueve!" again. And said something like, "That's a lot of cats."

"Si. Ay muchos gatos."

And then I wanted to say in French, oui, c'est plus de chats. Trop. But I would have been showing off badly, no doubt, and embarrassed us both.

For the rest of the trip, whenver our carts past in the wide aisles, he said, "Hee! Nueve!"

I looked in his cart and saw some bananas and a loaf of bread. Projecting like crazy, I thought it was more of an outing than an expedition.

But he got to go home with a story about the crazy Norteamericana with nine cats.

I had to unload 180 pounds of cat litter from my car.

I think he got the better end of the deal.

How Cool is Phoebe?

This morning as I was stumbling toward the kitchen, I noticed Phoebe up on the cat perch, looking like a fat furry little Zen master. She just studied me. I said, "Peewee!" and she said, "Miam!"

I went over to pet her and noticed what looked like cardboard or brown paper on her back. "Oh, poor Feebs," I said. "How did this happen?" I pulled on the cardboard, but it was really stuck to her.

I felt around and grasped a hard bit of twine. Somewhere in the house was a small fancy shopping bag missing a quarter of the bag and one of the handles.

Easing the handle around, I popped it off her, but she stayed on the tree. I wondered how long she'd been up there, waiting for me to wake up and come rescue her.

Usually, I make a habit of snipping those handles in two and throwing out the bag, but this one had lingered, due to some very bad housekeeping.

Most cats would have gone absolutely bat shit and knocked themselves out, trying to get the evil bag away from them. For all I know, Phoebe might have done it.

Did it happen at 9:40 when I fell asleep? Or did it happen just an hour before I woke up?

Either way, Phoebe impressed me with her coolness.

To convince her that she could walk without the evil bag following her, I picked her up and put her on the floor and nudged her with my foot. She said, "Miam!" again and waddled over to the water bowl.

Five minutes later, she was back on her perch, batting away all who would dethrone her. Phoebe is one cool cat.

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.

Not Good News

1. Gus is severely anemic. With a normal range to this particular test starting at 34, Gus tests at a 19.

2. Gus's heart is enlarged. But only part of it.

3. Gus is in the early stages of renal failure. Medicine to help his heart will have adverse effects on his kidneys.

4. There are two masses in Gussy's liver. "Not terribly big and it's impossible to tell without doing a biopsy whether or not it's benign."

What can be causing all this?

The early stages of lymphoma. Maybe. Or it could be a perfectly horrible storm of stuff happening to my Gussy Guy at once.

This was delivered by a decidedly Not Hunky Vet.

I'm going in about an hour to pick him up. I wasn't able to get much of anything done at work today.

The estimate for this treatment ranged from $450 - $1,400. At some point, I have to say no. I spent my lunch time arranging a payment plan with the hospital that finally did something about my hurt leg in June. They were very nice. Wells Fargo should take lessons from them.

The vet's office wanted a $400 deposit. I must have turned pale because Donna the receptionist said, "Let me go see if we can make it less. Would, um, $200 be okay?"

I nodded.

Apparently the Big Vet (still so un-hunky) asked, "Is she a good client?" And Donna responded astringently that I'm an excellent customer.

But still. My Gussy is not going to live forever. And what will I do without his sweetness? His simple, loving goodness? Where will I be without my Gussygusgusgus?

I'll think about that tomorrow. When I go home to Tara.

Cats in the Age of Anxiety

The cats sleep with me,usually. Not all of them, but a good number of them. I go to sleep with Katy at my head, Mo somewhere on the bed, Dylan in my arms, and Taylor trying to get as close to my butt as she can. (I find this very disconcerting.)

I wake up with Dylan in my arms, Katy at my head, Gus at my feet, Sophie fleeing as soon as she realizes I'm awake, and Brianna fresh in from Briannaland prancing on the bed.

During the night, they have pushed me, crowded me, tried to sleep on my face (but it's warm there), slept on my head, around my neck, nudged up under my arms, crawled under the covers and tried to get beneath my pajama top (but it's warm there). God help me if I wake up at three o'clock needing to pee. It isn't a matter of hopping up, doing what I need to do, then settling back under the wonderfully snug covers. No.

Our Goddess is awake! We must arise and accept the manna she gives us! And if she tries to go back to sleep, let's get her!

Last night, I went to bed early. And I closed the bedroom door with all of the cats on the other side of it.

When I woke up, Dylan was repeatedly hurling himself headfirst into the door. When I opened the door, he leaped into my arms. Everyone else was all freaked out, too. So we went into the kitchen, I fed them their daily ration of canned food, and then I settled in with my cup of coffee to write in my diary as I do every morning.

Wrong. So many feelings were bruised and anxieties raised during the night that I broke up three fights, escorted Butch to the litter box, kept Mo from attacking Butch while he was in the litter box, pulled Mo off of Butch after he finished in the litter box, and chased Taylor away from Mo. (If the cats see me scolding another, they all go after the scolded one.)

I had to go around soothing them all. When the cats fight, the first thing for me to do is to break it up, although it's usually over by the time I get to the scene of the crime. When it goes on, I break it up. Then I have to go find the guilty parties and separately soothe them.

Taylor is a terrible scrapper. Once I get her away from whoever she's been picking on, I then have to pick her up and pet her until she calms down. Cats don't see this as a reward for bad behavior. They fight because they're anxious, they don't know where they stand and they need to be reassured that all is as it should be.

They're all sleeping now. Sometimes I wish I had one of those air horns obnoxious people use at sporting events.

The Patient Is Resting Comfortably

...under the bed.

I am home. I am hungry. I paid $251.87 to ransom Gus. I can pay the other half next month. (That's right. THE OTHER HALF.)

I didn't want to go to:

Paris
London
San Francisco
Florida
Cape May

And I certainly didn't want to:

Go to a Yankees game
Take that boating safety course
Buy a new car
Get the steering fixed on the old one
Have the brakes looked at
Spend Saturdays at home instead of at a part-time gig

And Heaven forbid I:

Actually get ahead
Actually stay ahead
Be able to afford to get all my cats up to date medically.

I spent $200 on cat food yesterday. If I'm lucky, it'll last them a month and a half.

I just called my old temp agency to see if they can find me something for Saturdays. Surely there's a doctor's office somewhere that needs a plump and comforting middle-aged receptionist to play Solitaire on their PC on Saturdays.

Weekend Cat Blog - Love of My Life

Before there was Dylan, there was Burton. This is Burton in 1997, not long before he died. By that time, he was nearly blind and diabetic, with his blood sugar doing an uncontrollable roller coaster ride. He was also in kidney failure. My poor Burtie.

When I moved to Florida with Xman, we had temporary housing in a furnished apartment while we waited for our little house to be built. We had moved down from Jersey with what we thought was a staggering four cats in tow. (Beezer, Garf, George Bunny Brindley-Flopsy, and Jennie.)

The apartment was on the ground level with a wonderful little patio out back. The complex was overrun with cats. Because the complex was temporary housing for a lot of people, they would get cats or briefly take in strays, only to dump them without spaying or neutering them before they moved on, leaving the cats behind.

One night as we were coming home from dinner, a slim streak of black and white dashed behind the shrubs. "That's the kitten I was telling you about," he said. "The one who came to the patio window and just stayed there."

A few days went past and I saw the kitten at the window. When I opened the door to put out a can of food, he ran away, but he came back. I didn't get to touch him at all.

Then an edict went out across the complex that all the cats left out on an April night would be rounded up and taken to the pound.

I was frantic as the days ticked by. This kitten, that I'd named Bandit, still wouldn't let me touch him but he was eating on the patio every night or every other night.

On the night before the cat roundup, I hadn't seen Bandit for at least two days. There had been a big mean tom challenging all comers to my door.

On the night of the roundup, I went outside to the patio. I had a can of food in front of me. Xman at one point asked me how long I was going to sit out there, but he had to know I wasn't going in until I had Bandit.

It wasn't long before the black and white kitten stuck his head around the patio gate. Tentatively, he walked toward me and began to eat. I didn't move. I barely breathed. My legs had gone to sleep.

He ate as kittens do, convinced they'll never eat again. I waited. If he moved to go off the patio, I was prepared to grab him.

Instead, he finished the food, looked up at me and climbed into my lap. He gave a great sighing purr and settled in across my lap. When I touched him, he rolled over on his side.

For fourteen years, Burton was my cat. Every night, he went to bed when I did. Every night, he settled in, cuddled up against my chest. Every night, I heard that sighing purr and knew that everything was right with the world. At least, it was all right with Burtie and me.