Wrong station

So far in 2015, I’ve had a foot ulcer, bleeding in my eyeball, a spine injury, my cat died, and my mother was put into a hospital for dementia. Plus $4K of car repairs. Goddess, would you please change the radio station? My life is apparently set to the country-music channel.

A child of Boo

I have to write this. This doesn’t mean you have to read it. Just skip it.

This is the story I told my cats from time to time.

Once upon a time, there was a little black kitten who was living homeless on the streets of Jersey City. A human, CJ, saw the kitten and gave her a home. She called the kitten Boo. CJ intended to get Boo spayed, but Boo was quite the precocious kitten. At six months old, she went into her first heat and broke out of CJ’s house. CJ’s boyfriend found Boo with a male on the front porch. He broke them up, but it was too late. A few weeks later Boo gave birth to four kittens.

There were three black kittens, and one gray one. There were three girls, and one boy. Even before they were born, I told CJ I would take in two kittens. Their names would be Shadow and Mist. After they were born, it was clear the gray girl would be Mist. I remember visiting CJ’s and seeing Boo with a mass of black fur feeding from mommy, with one gray puffball wriggling in an out of the pile. The black boy kitten liked to follow Mist around. It was clear that he was Shadow.

I took in Shadow and Mist. One kitten went to CJ’s upstairs neighbor, and was named Zaire. CJ named the remaining black girl kitten Peekaboo, after her mother Boo. CJ could not keep Boo and Peekaboo, and placed them in a shelter. When I heard about this, I felt bad. As I looked at my kittens, I could not bear the thought of their mother and sister languishing in a shelter. So I called CJ and told her that if Boo and Peekaboo had not been adopted yet, I would take them in. My place isn’t big enough for four cats, but I’d manage somehow. CJ checked with the shelter, and found that the mother-daughter pair of black kittens had been adopted within 24 hours after CJ placed them there.

So that’s how Boo and all the children of Boo found themselves in their forever homes. That’s why I call my cats “boo-boo-babies,” because their mother was Boo and their sister was Peekaboo.

I held my kittens in my arms and told them I would love them forever.

My cats rarely listened to the whole story. About half-way through they’d get bored and move off. They’d heard the story too many times already.

The gray child of Boo had her list of favorite things to do:

For years, she loved to jump onto the top drawer of my filing cabinet when it was open. Then she go through the area behind the drawer and curl up on the closed drawer below. CJ told me Mist got this habit from curling up in drawers underneath her bed at her place.

When I made the bed, Mist would rush to be tucked underneath the sheets as I wafted them over the mattress. This left a lump underneath the sheet, which I’d pet over and over again to “smooth out the lump.” She could always escape, even from underneath the fitted sheet.

When I took a bath, Mist would come up and drink the bathwater. When I stepped out of the shower, young Mist would climb up the towel when it was wrapped around my body to perch on my shoulder. Later in life, she’d simply Meow until I picked her up and put her there.

Toilet time was time to pet Mist. No exceptions.

Shadow was not always diligent about burying his waste in the litter box. Mist would finish the job for him.

When they were kittens, Mist would protect her brother. Whenever they were both scared, Mist would be on top of her brother, keeping him safe.

As they grew older, Shadow still liked Mist but she grew to dislike him. It started after they were both fixed. Shadow was a male enough cat that he still jumped Mist from time to time. Mist finally had enough and let him know that he was no longer welcome, ever.

Shadow is an aggressive cat, but Mist was always the Alpha cat of the household.

Neither Shadow nor Mist were physically affectionate. At least Mist allowed herself to be picked up and held and petted. She also occasionally slept on top of me in bed, at least for twenty minutes or so.

Mist was shy. She’d come out if there was only other person in the apartment besides me. If there were more than that, she’d stay in the bedroom. Many of my friends who’ve visited me have never seen Mist.

The life of my previous cat, Ginger, revolved around eating. I resolved not to repeat that mistake with Shadow and Mist. Their lives revolved around being petted. It was a little easier on me to begged every 15 minutes to be petted than to be begged every 15 minutes for a cat treat.

Both Shadow and Mist loved catnip. I also had a small planter of cat grass in the apartment, and Mist used that when her stomach felt queasy. Shadow never used it; he prefers to chew on the plastic fibers at the edge of the carpet.

Mist loved to chase the red laser dot. Shadow did too, but Mist was far more enthusiastic about it.

I taught Shadow and Mist how to use a scratching post as kittens. Shadow completely understood, but Mist thought it was a matter of location, not furniture; if I moved the scratching post for any reason, Mist would scratch at the table leg nearest to where the scratching post had been. I taught the kittens by making it clear to them that, no matter how I felt about you or whatever else you did, if you scratched at the scratching post you were going to get petted.

Mist enjoyed all these things and more.

Today forever ended for the gray child of Boo.

Mist
March 11, 2002
December 20, 2015
She was my beautiful boo-boo-baby.

No spoilers, sweetie

My take on “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” matches that of most of the reviews I’ve seen: this isn’t the best of the series (I’d pick The Empire Strikes Back); this isn’t the worst of the series (tie between The Phantom Menace and The Return of the Jedi). This is a Star Wars movie, picking up the beats from thirty-odd years ago. My main complaint about the film is that J.J. Abrams pushed the “homage” button a bit too often. Otherwise, fans of the series and a general audience will get what they expect from a Star Wars movie: action, adventure, dueling spaceships, lightsaber battles. And, of course, heroes with enough pluck to bite the ears off a Gundaar. The film fulfills expectations and gives room for the series to grow in the future. Now that we’ve got the homages out of the way, we’re ready to go forward with Star Wars VIII.

Hope, three

I just came back from visiting Mist at the cat clinic. <lj-cut>She’s not happy, but she’s definitely healthier. She’ll still be there for at least a couple of days. Until the biopsy results come back, we won’t know what’s next. She has a mass on her lymph node and her bowel. The vet hopes it’s lymphoma, because that means the course of treatment would be chemotherapy. If it’s not, the next step would be surgery, and the vet would rather not operate on a Mist when she’s so weak. Either way, this is expensive. Chemo for cats runs about $1000/month for 29 weeks. For cats, chemotherapy is usually just palliative; it gives them a good quality of life for a few years. I’ve already decided which way I’ll go: I can’t put a price on someone I love. As long as she’s comfortable, I’ll handle it. So no trips or festivals in 2016. No visits to California to see my mother; she’ll be vexed but she’ll have to deal with it. My father offered to go halfsies with me on a new car, but now I can’t afford the monthly payments on even half a car; I’ll just have to keep repairing my 1998 car for as long as I can. I’m grateful that I found a good veterinarian who’s able to give Mist the care she needs. I’m grateful that, even though this is a serious financial blow, I can handle it. And I’m grateful for all the people who gave their good wishes and energy to my little boo-boo-baby, especially from those who never met her. </lj-cut>

Hope, too

OK, this post you can read. It’s a bit more optimistic. Taking Mist to the cat clinic was better than I expected. Yes, she was mad, sad, disappointed in me, and looking for a way to escape. However, she did not seem to be a cat on the verge of dying, just upset. The doctor, a different vet than the one I saw a week ago Tuesday, was not as convinced that Mist’s problem was a tumor. She said that Mist was severely dehydrated despite my giving her SQ fluids, because Mist was probably vomiting up as much as she was getting. We still have to understand why Mist is nauseous. Overall, I feel better about the outcome of Mist’s stay at the clinic than I did this morning.