Mumbling Madly

How will your animal react to an upcoming baby? Well, in the case of my geriatric cat, Hobbes, the baby’s furniture has recently been discovered:

This also includes sleeping on a fair amount of freshly washed baby clothes that were being stored in the crib drawer:

These pictures are from a month ago and so desperately funny and sad. She turned out to be fine…

Few things are worse then waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of a cat vomiting…truly. The only thing that makes it slightly better is a handmade sign left next to the vomit: “Warning! Cat Puke!” This is complete with a drawing of a cat throwing up. Josh left this for me per my request since at 6am I was simply too exhausted to wake up and clean the vomit off my bedroom rug. Thanks Josh.

Hobbes and the snowy flip flop:

Actual Thanksgiving Dialogue:

I went to Safeway to buy dental floss. The pink paper frame around the credit card machine at the counter announced that it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. “Would you like to donate a dollar?” the checker asked me. “Sure!” I said, feeling very purposeful. I contributed my dollar and the checker continued ringing me up. “Uh, can I have the little pink card with the donation name on it?” I asked carefully. “Oh, of course!” the checker apologized. The card read, “Donated in Honor of __________” I took the card and carefully wrote Brynn’s full name. Then I blabbed to the checker about Brynn’s Stage 8 breast cancer at age 28, how she’s in radiation now, how proud I am of her. “Bless her heart!” the checker said genuinely.

Hobbes returned a week later to the vet for a follow up appointment. When we entered the exam room, I opened up the cage. Hobbes refused to come out. I didn’t realize the delicate nature of examining ill-functioning anal glands. Hobbes needed an anal exam, read: a lubed finger up her butt. Under the vet’s request I left the room again this time, Hobbes yowling in protest. “She peed,” the vet said when I returned. “Her glands feel fine, no relapse.” Hobbes glared at me from inside her cage. We will return in 2 weeks.

On Sunday night Josh and I went to a rather prominent modern dance show. I won’t give away too many details but the artistic director is African American, the company has elevated status in Seattle (above the usual fray of 10 Tiny Dances and eclectic Cap Hill ensembles), and I typically take a ballet class on Friday morning’s with the company. The first piece was unarguably the most enjoyable: hip-hop infused with a liberal use of hoodies, beats, and well timed facial expressions. There was a really beautiful dancer in this piece who was both charismatic and wonderful. The other two pieces were, quite simply weird. I borrow Josh’s assessment: “So many of the pieces were based on just being weird…I mean the dancers were good, but the movement was so strange I was distracted. Why is all the merit placed on just being really odd?” In addition to being weird, the piece by the artistic director looked painful. The dancers were slapping their limbs inadvertently all over the mylar floor, their bodies taped up in obvious attempt to hide and prevent bruising. They sweated and purposely huffed and puffed, the panting obviously included as part of the choreography. They smacked their limbs around and sounded like they were all having asthma attacks. I wasn’t into it.

On the rainy drive home, Josh and I agreed that the one dancer in the first piece was really hot. Then my husband said something marvelous, “You know, I think she looks kind of like you! This happens to me all the time…I’ll see some girl with dark hair and think, ‘wow, she’s really attractive…” and then I realize: ‘Oh, she looks just like my wife.’”

Score.

Hobbes had been acting weird over the weekend: listless, agitated, and appeared to have a puffy butt hole. While snuggling in bed with husband and cat on Saturday morning, I suddenly noticed that Hobbes’ back end looked strange. Her tail is usually up in a silent greeting–this allows us plenty of unfortunate glimpses of her butt. Any change is noticeable. I cleaned out her litter box, observed that she was still using it, still seemed hungry, purred occasionally. But she couldn’t jump up on the bed and began sleeping underneath it at night. Her hind legs seemed stiff and her walk changed. Gradually she started hissing or growling at us if we came near her or tried to pet her.

I took her into the vet on Monday at great inconvenience to my schedule. I ended class early, broke speed limits to get back down to the south end, stuffed Hobbes into her cage, and made the 12:30pm appointment at her vet in Renton. Cats don’t like the vet and many of you know my cat is not known for her stoic nature. Her personality is already on the edgy side. Combine that with health problems and you have one hell of a demon cat. The exam was one of the worst displays of cat rage I’ve ever seen–it rivaled with Nature shows and cat fights you might hear outside. When the vet tech pulled her out of her cage Hobbes immediately began squalling, enraged that someone was disturbing her when it was obvious she was in pain. Her teeth started chattering–a ‘pain signal’ according to the vet tech. When the technician pulled out a thermometer and aimed it at her butt all hell broke loose. Fur was flying, Hobbes started screaming and both the vet technician and the vet had to hold her down. I actually had to step outside the exam room–the stress of watching my cat made me cry.

When I opened the door to leave, one of the cats that lives in the vet’s office was standing in the hallway. “Roger” looked at me with concerned eyes, his furry head straining to look behind me into the exam room. Respecting Hobbes’ privacy, I closed the door, knelt down and began petting him. Hobbes’ yowls could clearly be heard throughout the hallway and into the waiting room. I paced back and forth, Roger holding silent vigil outside the exam room. The verdict: swollen anal glands. I have no idea how the vet managed to put my cat into submission enough to feel her anal glands but apparently they were large and hard as lemons. “We’ll need to put her under anesthesia,” the vet said, “Obviously we can’t do anything with her awake.” As if on cue, Hobbes growled from her cage.

I left the vet without my cat. I tried not to cry. I tried not to imagine the worst: Hobbes has cancer, Hobbes has a tumor, Hobbes as 6 weeks to live. “I can’t lose my cat right now,” I said to myself. Images of my recently deceased grandpa floated in my head. “Perhaps Hobbes could live with him in heaven,” I thought absently. “I’m sure my grandma would like that.” The emotional toll of watching my cat’s examination was exhausting. I called my parents, I called my sister, I called Josh several times. Her surgery was at 3:30, her pick up time was between 5 and 7. I had rehearsal at the improv theater that night, so Josh was elected to retrieve our cat from the vet hospital. The vet told us that both anal glands were swollen and needed to be drained. One was infected, filled with blood and puss and she had to ‘clean it out.’ The vet confided that it was the worst anal abscess she’d ever seen in a cat.

Hobbes was woozy when I saw her again that night. Her tail refused to stand up, her back end was noticeably puffy, and she alternated between purring and growling at me. She attempted to go up the stairs, her back end sagging behind her in protest, eventually bringing her painfully back down to the ground floor. She slept under the bed the night of her surgery. But gradually throughout the next day, Hobbes returned to us emotionally. Able to jump up on the couch again, she joined me for an episode of Oprah. When Josh returned home, Hobbes greeted him enthusiastically.

It’s been a rough year for my 12 year old cat. In January she had a mountain of teeth removed due to periodontal disease. Then she was back to the vet for butt surgery. I don’t care how much it costs; having of my cat back in good health is priceless. For the first time in several days, Hobbes joined me on the bed this morning. She diligently went to work on cleaning herself: legs, toes….and butt.

Last Wednesday my little cat, Hobbes, went in for a teeth cleaning and infected tooth removal. She was eerily quiet on the way to her new vet, a little veterinary hospital in Renton. When I pulled into the driveway and turned the car off she began to meow pitifully. After checking her in (the cheery if not vapid receptionist kept referring to Hobbes as a ‘him’), I left my cat to the whims of anesthesia. Josh picked her up later, finding her hungry with a bandage on her shaved paw, and learned that Hobbes has Periodontal disease. Basically it means her teeth fall out randomly and according to the vet, she is missing multiple teeth! For example: both of her back molars are gone, a quirk we never realized when we took her in six years ago. They removed another back tooth and her bottom fang, slathered cement on her remaining teeth in an attempt to keep them secure, and clipped her toenails.

The shaved paw is really the only reminder that she underwent any sort of procedure (I’m assuming it’s where the IV needle went in). Her voracious appetite has not been affected, however, and we’ve had no trouble hiding her antibiotics in a mound of tuna fish (only tuna, she refuses pills in regular wet food). She even held still when we squirted pain meds down her throat and has spent many leisurely hours sleeping on Josh’s new chair. All of this is sad evidence that our cat is getting old–2008 is her twelfth year–and dental diseases are par for the course. 1996 is special because it’s the year Josh and I met and our future cat was born. Despite her graduation to senior cat status, her mandatory blood work came back normal and her feisty attitude remains.