Does anyone else see that black cloud following me?

(Note:  Immediate family members might want to give this one a miss, at least for a while.)

I went over to my parents' house tonight to check on things (okay, okay, it was also to watch "Mad Men" on OnDemand because I don't have cable) while they're on vacation.  I went home and fed the cats, checked on Louie (he seems okay, but he's still so thin), and Sam and I stopped at the dry cleaner's and the dog park, and then drove over to the house.  Their cat Isaac met me in the driveway, in a frenzy of meowing.  He always gets anxious when there's no one home, and the neighbor across the street who cat-sits has been known in the past to indulge Isaac's begging with an entire canister of cat treats in a single week, turning him into a treat monster for days afterward.

So I wasn't concerned.  I went inside, fed the dog and got him some water (hot weather today!), picked Isaac up and gave him a treat, scavenged for a snack (there's something about looking in other people's cupboards when they're not home...I think it takes me back to babysitting, after the kids went to bed and I got hungry waiting for the parents to get home), and went in the living room to watch TV.  I gave ZaSu, their other cat, a pat as she slept in the chair with her back to me.

Which is how I discovered--

--that she was dead.

One hand in the air above her, I froze for a long moment, the kind that lasts so long that it stretches time out like an elastic band.  Finally, a thought appeared:  what THE HELL was I going to do?  My parents were away, and I couldn't just leave her there, but I couldn't bring myself to officially look.  Finally I saw that the neighbor across the street, who is the sweetest man and would do anything you needed him to (I'm guessing that includes a ride to the airport or a kidney), was outside in his car.  I ran out and asked for his help.  I called my parents to break the news, while he drove to the store for a suitable box.  My parents were so sorry, and said to do whatever I thought was best.  So I found the number for a local emergency vet clinic, and called to see if they could take her.  They could.  I got directions.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking down at my directions to the clinic written in green marker on several post-its, the first thing I could find.  We've had Zazz since I was 16.  She was only a month old.  One of the other neighbors was trying to find a home for her, because his friend had been illegally keeping a cat in his apartment and it had kittens.  She was the tiniest thing; she fit in the pocket of my bathrobe, and slept by my head, purring.  When she was six months old, she broke her leg--while sleeping on the tailpipe of the neighbor's truck, which he did not notice before taking it out for a spin.  She was resilient, though.  She survived, but she's had a pin in her hip ever since, and she has always hobbled a little.

Our neighbor came back into the house with a box from the store.  A box that said "Bud Light Lime" on it in bright green letters.  I was sad about our cat, upset enough that I couldn't be the one to wrap her and gently place her in the box (bless you, dear neighbor, for taking that on).  But there was a part of me that floated briefly overhead and saw that there was an element of the ridiculous in the two of us solemnly carrying a beer case out of the house.

Our neighbor drove me down to the clinic, and we took the box inside.  He carried it for me, and with great sensitivity set it down.  I had said goodbye with a final pat outside, not because I wanted to, exactly, but because I knew I would regret it if I didn't.  She looked almost asleep, peaceful, quiet, but I could feel when I stroked her that she wasn't there anymore.

Inside, the nurse looked up questioningly, and I explained that I had called a little earlier--"Oh, about a cat," she said, and came around the corner to take the box from us, just as the vet came out from the back room.  Someone made a remark about the fact that it was a Bud Light box, and the vet asked jovially if we had brought pizza, too.  The nurse laughed.  When they were both gone, my neighbor and I looked at each other.  "Did that seem a little insensitive?" I hissed.  "I know!" he said. 

I whispered that when I had called the clinic and choked up as I explained that my family's cat had just died, the lady on the phone had just said, "Okay," in a matter-of-fact tone.  I know you must get to be a little jaded working in a place like that, or you'd probably want to go home and slit your own wrists every night, but I would have settled for a little forced sympathy from her.  They taught us at the call center years ago that just because you've heard it all a thousand times, the person calling you is experiencing it for the first time.

Just then, the vet came back out, his face white.  "I'm so sorry," he said with genuine emotion.  "I didn't realize your cat was dead."  We nodded that it was okay.

And just like that, it was finished.  I handed over my debit card and signed a treatment release form.  The neighbor drove me home and gave me another hug (or I gave him one--I could tell he felt guilty for "letting" this happen on his watch, so I found myself comforting and reassuring him that she lived a good long life and went so peacefully in her sleep in her favorite chair, that we couldn't have asked for better for her, and he shouldn't blame himself at all).

I went inside and gave Isaac a huge handful of treats.  I hugged Sam for a long time, as long as he let me.  I stayed and watched my show so that Isaac would be hopefully be comforted by my presence.  (Incidentally, Mad Men might not be the best choice for an evening of grief--someone died this week, and it's a maudlin show in the best of times.)  Another neighbor called, having gotten the news from the other neighbor and seen my car still in the driveway.  She wanted to make sure I was okay.  We complain about the neighbors sometimes, but when something real happens, everyone is there for each other.  And she's a dog person.

The last of my childhood pets is gone.  I'm sad, but she lived a good long life and she was old and it was just time.  These are the things we tell ourselves, when we don't have other words, but they seem true to me tonight.  She was a good cat.

No answers yet

Why, I ask you, can't it be the easy solution just once?  The vet called me today, and said he's 98 percent certain, based on the early test results, that Louie does not have hyperthyroidism.  That's good news...but we still don't know what's wrong with him.

It could be as simple as a parasite, which is easily diagnosed with a $30 test, and cheaply treated.  Or it could be a GI problem, or an inflamed bowel, or some kind of cancer.  In order to diagnose these latter three, we would be looking at an ultrasound ($800) or an endoscopy ($1200), and that's just the cost of figuring out what's wrong--not treating it.

Have I mentioned that I really like this vet?  He gives me detailed information with which to make informed decisions, and he's sensitive to cost and practicality when it comes to treatment.  So if the parasite test is negative, he suggested that we put Louie on a special hypoallergenic (=$$) diet, and monitor him for a month.  If he gains back some weight, we know it was the bowel thing and he just has to be on that diet for the rest of his life.  If not....Well, we didn't get that far.

I love my pets, I really do.  And I want to be a responsible pet owner.  But I also try to be practical.  He is my cat, not my child (does this sound familiar, readers? remember this same debate from a year ago with a certain German shepherd?), and I don't think that just because we can treat animals with advanced internal medicine and specialized procedures, we necessarily should.  Even if he has something that could be treated and give him additional time, I'm concerned about his quality of life.  A person can rationally understand that even though a treatment is painful, it is for a purpose.  My cat is not going to grasp that concept.

Sorry to get maudlin on you again.  I'm just worried.  And tired.  And stressed out at work.  I like my job most of the time, but lately I feel like I'm getting about 10% of 10% of the necessary information to be effective.  My immediate supervisor only gets some of the facts (nobody seems to know everything, so at least we're all in the same boat there), and she only has time to throw a few of them my way when I see her between meetings and crises.  It's been chaotic and frustrating.  I think it will get better.  I just hope it's soon.

I've been having headaches, too.  I went to the doctor last week, and he thinks I'm clenching my teeth in my sleep, so now I have a very attractive bite guard (think hockey player) to wear at night.  It seems to be helping, because I haven't woken up with a migraine.

But in the interest of ending on a positive note, here's some good news:  the community orchestra I play with has a new director, since our founding director retired in 2008 and we tried out three candidates last year (and hired my favorite).  I think it's going to be a great season, and I'm motivated to practice my viola for the first time in ages.  There are so many new players that we actually ran out of chairs tonight.  So that's good.

I'll try to post an update when we know more about Louie.  Not to be indelicate, but I have been waiting for him to leave a, um, sample, so that I can take it to the vet for testing.  Sensing this, he has been avoiding the litter box.

In Which Erin Becomes Educated on Feline Illnesses, Too

I thought we were done with the vet for a while.  First:  Sam is doing great--he loves to go to the dog park and gallop up and down the hill, and he's energetic and happy and wonderfully life-enriching. 

But I noticed a week or two ago that my cat Louie has been losing weight.  I can distinctly feel his spine and ribs, and now the bones in his head, as well.  He's a big cat, and he had put on a few pounds since coming to live as an indoor-only feline at Chez Erin, but I weighed him (Erin+cat on scale - Erin on scale alone = cat's weight) and discovered that he'd lost at least two pounds.  So, being the responsible citizen and pet owner that I am, I made him a vet appointment.

I was not sure at all that I would get him back after the appointment--but only because the technicians were all trying to take him home with them!  He is a very sweet and personable cat, if I do say so myself, and people generally warm to him quickly.  He has big blue eyes (hence his original name was "Blue"--named by the same idiot owner whose solution for him continually climbing onto the neighbor's roof was to have him declawed; good riddance to her--but I just couldn't call a cat BLUE, so we transitioned to LOU-ie), and he has thick gray fur with a mix of tabby and Siamese markings.  He's about 10 years old, as far as I know.

Louie's a very good cat.  He sat very patiently on the exam table and purred and purred.  The vet even had to wave a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol under his nose to get him to stop long enough so she could listen to his heartbeat. 

So...the vet thinks that he has hyperthyroidism.  We won't know for sure until the test results come back, but he seems to be a likely candidate:  rapid weight loss, increased appetite, older cat, Siamese. 

If  that's the case, the good news:  it's treatable or even curable.  The bad news:  treatment will either be a pill twice a day for the rest of his life (estimated at about $20/month); or a one-time radioactive shot which cures the disease, at a cost of $800+.

That's right.

$800 or more.  He would have to go to a specialist; there are two places here in town that administer this particular shot.

I have to admit, I laughed when she gave me the estimate.  It's not quite as much as it cost over a year to treat Sam for heartworm...but it's close.  At this point, I feel like I should get a thank-you note from the vets' children for single-handedly paying for their orthodontia--and probably their new speedboat and ponies, too.

I haven't decided yet what I will do if the test results show hyperthyroidism.  Tomorrow the other vet will call me with the first results, and we'll go from there.  I feel bad--I always seem to be interrogating him for medical information, but he patiently answers all my questions and gives me very reasoned advice.

So, cross your fingers that it's nothing more serious than this.  If treated properly, it won't shorten or really even affect his life.  And the next time someone offers you a reasonable rate on pet medical insurance, do me a favor and take it!

Groceries, American Style

I'm supposed to be grocery shopping right now.  That was my one goal for this afternoon, to go to the grocery store and bring home some food so I will be stocked for the week.  (And yet, here I sit.)

Once I'm out of the house and there, I actually kind of enjoy the grocery store.  I like finding just the things I need, as efficiently as I can, and determining the best price, and figuring out the option with the least salt or sugar or fat or whatever.  I like clipping coupons (except when I hate it).  I like to stand in line at the checkout and read the tabloid covers (I have to admit, I miss the Weekly World News and its zanily doctored photos); and I like to look around unabashedly to see what other people are buying.  The college guys on Friday nights with two six-packs and a shrink-wrapped package of firewood.  The old ladies with a cartful of canned goods and a fistful of expired coupons.  The teenagers with eight candy bars and a Red Bull.  I like to guess who's on their way to a party (tortilla chips and a plastic tub of dip), and who forgot to buy one ingredient for tonight's recipe, and who just had a sudden craving for some fancy cheese.

I feel a little guilty for resenting the grocery store.  It seems like I should be grateful just for the opportunity to shop at all.  First, there's the fact that I have sufficient money to buy enough food for myself, including the occasional splurge (macadamia nuts, feta cheese, good chocolate, almond-stuffed green olives--or yes, sometimes Cheetos, my secret junk food of choice). 

Also, I have lived in another country, where going grocery shopping was an exhausting, bewildering, and often frustrating experience.  In China, we lived near a large underground supermarket, with a conveyer belt that slowly moved you and your cart and 500 black-haired people downward into the belly of an enormous cacophany of pop music and small electronics and tanks of mysterious live seafood and a whole aisle of instant noodles in cups and tubs and boxes.  There were rows of plastic packages of spices I couldn't even guess at, and twenty-five kinds of canned tuna (including some with black beans mixed in), and signs and labels everywhere that I couldn't begin to read.  Just finding things that I could recognize as food--bread and peanut butter and Oreos--was an ordeal that could take a whole morning.

Not to mention standing in line at the checkout, which is an aggressive sport in China.  If you don't move up against the person in front of you as close as humanly possible without fusing together, and use your cart and body to guard your spot, preferably with a friend to block the other side, you will find yourself constantly at the end of the line, with sweet-looking tiny old women muscling you aside like crafty linebackers to get ahead of you.  When I moved back to the States, it was hard to get used to polite Americans standing in line again; I rammed more than one shopper's ankles with my cart, and my mother looked at me like I was crazy.

Whenever I came home for a visit, I was overwhelmed by the variety of choices and the fact that I recognized everything.  My mom would take me along to the store, and ask me to go pick some cereal or ice cream.  Several minutes later, she'd come back to find me frozen in the middle of the aisle, staring at the possibilities, brain unable to make a decision because I could read the packages and I knew what ALL of them were.  Coming from a world where one box of crackers in English was cause for delight, this was just too much.

Don't get me wrong:  I loved the food in China.  I still dream about it sometimes.  We ate out all the time at restaurants both rich and cheap.  Everything was good--corner noodle shops serving steamed dumplings filled with pork and chives, tiny hotpot stands in the market where you pointed to the boiling bowlful you wanted and ate it at a communal table, fancy places with "traditional" peasant fare for exorbitant prices real peasants could never afford.  Other than my friends, I miss the food most of all.  But when I wanted to cook in my apartment, or just have food on hand for a quick lunch in, I needed something that I knew how to prepare and eat.  And that was not as easy to find as you might think.

American brain freeze extended beyond grocery shopping, too.  After my parents picked me up from the airport on a trip home, I would stare out the window at all the billboards and signs in English, amazed that I could understand them.  I would sit on the edge of the bathtub and read the entire toothpaste box.  I couldn't get enough of television in a language where I finally knew what was going on.  In China, I would watch TV sometimes and attempt to figure out the story line.  Some shows weren't too hard--that man was kissing a woman who wasn't his wife, and when she found out she was really, really mad--but the mystical kungfu serials and comedy hours were utterly baffling.  Occasionally I would come across a dubbed American movie, and I would try to follow it by seeing if I could lip-read (I could not).  There was one broadcast channel in English, run by the government as all Chinese TV is, but most of its programs were wholesome and educational and whitewashed and incredibly boring--and that's coming from someone who likes PBS--except when they would show English-language movies one night a week.  I didn't care what it was; the novelty of the box in my living room finally speaking my language was exciting enough.  I discovered that many of my friends in the expat community did the same thing:  Australian, South African, British, it didn't matter.  We all watched and then talked about Longitude or Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore or whatever was on. 

That's not to say that we didn't enjoy spending time among Chinese speakers.  But when you're constantly barraged by a language that's not the same as the one in your head, and your brain has to work overtime all day to make sense of just enough words to figure out what's going on and how to reply, it's a refreshing treat to be able to sit back and have the words flow in without effort.

And now it's time to venture out to the grocery store where I am fortunate enough to be able to shop, so that I don't have to do it on the holiday tomorrow.  Happy Labor Day, everyone.