how about a fluffy kitty post?

This day is shot for anything serious, so it seems like a good day to blog. There are two contractors in the house right now whipping up two sets of banisters for us, one for each staircase, and it’s loud in here, so it’s hard to think. I just fished my scaredy cat Djuna out from behind the washer and brought her up to the bedroom to shut her in there for the duration. As soon as I set her down, she crouched close to the floor and scuttled away from me, pausing once to look back at me over her shoulder. “Don’t think for a minute that I trust you, you traitorous bitch,” she said, or would have, had she been able. The last time I shut her in the bedroom, a week ago, I followed with a cat carrier, which led to a visit to the vet. She’s wary and pissed.

My childhood cat, Apricot, was a similarly delicate flower. The summer after my sixth grade year my parents decided to remodel our house to make the attic into a second floor. My mom’s two brothers, who are professional carpenters, did the job, subjecting the kitty to loud male voices and power tools for weeks on end. For the remaining ten or so years of his life, Apricot would have nothing to do my uncles. The minute they walked in the house, he shot under my parents’ bed and would not resurface until they were gone.

Bonzo, while less emotionally fragile, is also mad about the confinement. I have to keep my eye on him, that one. Unlike Djuna, his M.O. when things get crazy is not to hide, but to work mischief. He is itching to bust out. I can’t let him free, though, because he will do one or both of two things: 1) Head-butt the contractors or 2) Run out the front door, which is wedged open by multiple power cords.

Generally the Bonz is something of a little shit, but lately I’ve been indulgent of his bad behavior. According to the vet, he has some nasty lesion in his mouth, which is, from what I understand, more or less the feline equivalent of a cavity. The only solution is to extract the tooth. Alas for the bank account, it turns out you can’t pull a cat’s tooth at home with some gin and a pliers. (I winced as I wrote that. Just so you don’t think I’m a monster.) It has to be done by multiple trained professionals while the cat is under general anesthesia. It costs…don’t ask. I considered not doing it, thinking about all the kids in this country alone who don’t get decent dental care. But the poor guy is eating less and has gotten ridiculously clingy, and the vet assured me that he is in pain. So not doing it would be tantamount to cruelty. I am responsible for this animal, after all. I wield complete authority over his life. (Don’t ask me how long it’s been since I’ve been to the dentist.)

“Our cat has a lesion,” I told Eric. “A leeeeeesion.”

“You’re weird,” he said.

It could be worse. It could be a pustule.

Soon after I’d scheduled his surgical appointment, my parents called, and we talked depressing animal news. I told them about my mother-in-law’s beautiful, adoring collie Roy, who had to be put to sleep. I loved Roy, so I’m kind of bummed about it. He was flatulent and pathetic and had breath that could repel armies of the undead, but he was pure of heart. My parents responded by telling about some close family friends whose cat just died while in surgery.

“Uh…she what?”

“She just didn’t make it through the operation. They’re so sad about it.”

Silence from me.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” my dad said, reading my mind. “I mean, she was seventeen years old. A young cat like Bonzo, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

I know that I am a little overwrought about this because when I went to the informative web page that the vet referred me to, in order to learn more about this lesion condition, I was emotionally affected by the picture of a cat lying unconscious on a surgical table, having its teeth cleaned. It’s a wonder I can make it through any given episode of All Creatures Great and Small.

Don’t leave a comment that says, “Wait until you have a kid.” Just don’t.