Someone went to see Santy Claws!!

“Fancy blog you’ve got there!”

I’ve started a blog for Fancy.

Or at least for Fancy-related posts as they pertain to her medical condition. You can find it at http://fancygreen.wordpress.com.

I’ll continue to post about Fancy here, but most of the information about her health will be kept at the new site. I need to keep track of her eating, drinking, bodily functions, behavior, etc, and might as well do it electronically.

Thanks to everyone who sent well-wishes, etc. Your support means a lot to us!

Consolation Prizes

When I was a kid, I was sick all the time. Literally, every month or so, I’d have a new infection or asthma attack or bug or some kind of weird whatever. Every time I had to go to the hospital, I’d get a doll or some candy or some kind of toy. So, when Fancy came back from the ultrasound* today, it only felt right. Here’s what she scored from her harrowing ordeal:

• 1 new fluffy fleece cushion for her favorite corner
• 1 pair of grooming gloves (since she *desperately* needs groomed and hates the brush, I figured this is a gift for her and me)
• 1 bag of seriously strong organic catnip
• 2 little chicken-shaped boppy toys that pop straight back up when she bats at them (hypothetically, as in, if she ever bats at them)
• 5 cans assorted flavors Science Diet wet food (she loves canned food)
• 1 betta fish complete with contemporary-style bucket (what we commonly refer to as any container for holding a pet)

I sat the fish in his little cup down in front of her on the table when I walked in the door. She vaguely registered that something had been introduced to her environment. Sniffed at it with complete disinterest.

Me: “That’s your fishy!”

Fancy: *silence*

Me: “What are we going to call it?”

Fancy: *ear twitch*

So, we are now the proud new owners of one crazy-looking red betta fish named Twitch.

*We need some time to process everything we learned today, and should know more on Monday. I’ve been shuffling, cataloging, and reorganizing all the information, possibilities, probabilities, and prognoses into one thousand different “what if” scenarios all day and we’ve both been to the gates of Hell and back today. My mind is too cloudy to write about it today, but suffice to say, so far, it’s not horrible, it’s not wonderful, and we’ll know more by Monday. Until then, we’re just gonna keep on keepin’ on.

Further Evidence to My Theory that Fancy is Slowly Becoming an Actual Human

“All the time we spend anthropomorphizing our animals – do you ever get the the feeling that they’re just animorphizing us?” – Angelina Jolie in “Playing By Heart”

So Fancy decided this evening that she’s ready to eat.

She was ready to eat my crescent roll. I sat down at the table for dinner, up she came, and began sniffing it. I didn’t think anything of it, given that this cat has not TOUCHED not ONE single MORSEL of human food in TWELVE years of life. But then she started licking it. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped her with a gentle “No, no, baby, that’s for mere mortals,” but seeing as how she hasn’t eaten in a WEEK, I figured I’d see what happened. She licked the thing to death, put a good silver dollar-sized hole in it. Then sat back and licked her lips, cleaned her paw, as if she were quite pleased with herself.

Color me confused.

A crescent roll? Seriously? After a week-long fast, that’s what you want to go with?

So, call it divine inspiration, whatever, but I got an idea. I took a can of tuna out of the pantry, opened it, and sat it down in front of her on the table. A sniff. A tentative itty-bitty taste test on the tongue, and then she dug in. She nommed a good tablespoon or so before I pulled it back due to mercury/diarrhea/possibility of cutting her tongue on the edge of the can concerns, but I let her drink all the juice out of it since she needs all the fluids she can get.

She’s happy as a little clam now.

I just simply don’t fricking get it.

She’s still going to have her liver ultrasound and stomach scope tomorrow. Hope she doesn’t think this new, warped cooperation is going to get her out of that.

UPDATE – 10:16pm

We have eatage! After giving her some space and going to swim for a while, I came home with a new can of tuna, the watery contents of which I poured over Fancy’s regular cat food. Immediate nommage. That was around 9:00; just now she came out and had some more, plus a hefty helping of water.

I wouldn’t say she’s out of the woods yet, seeing as how she still has to keep all of this down and still needs lots more water to be adequately hydrated, but it’s a start. I’ve pulled up her food bowl for the night, pending stomach scope-age tomorrow morning.

*fingers crossed*

Update

Tomorrow will mark one full week since Fancy has eaten anything of any substance and not upchucked it. She’s not even interested in canned food, which is usually her favorite treat. I put a plate of it in front of her and she moves away from it quickly. I finally shoved it under the bed with her. Must remember to pick that up before bedtime, otherwise, I’m going to reek of Tuna Seafood Feast in the morning.

Today’s small victory – on the third try, finally got a Periactin tablet down her without her tossing it, spitting it out, or stashing it in her cheek until I’m not looking (seriously, this cat is half human). At least, I think I did. I watched her for a while to make sure she wasn’t holding on to it.

She hates me with a murderous passion right now. If she had opposable thumbs, I’d be sleeping with one eye open. I’d hate me, too. I shoved a syringe full of water down her after the Periactin. It won’t do much for her; she’s so dehydrated. But every little bit will help, I suppose. The earliest I can get her to the doctor is Thursday. God, I hope she makes it until Thursday.

I’m preparing myself. Going over the scenario in my head. Imagining every possible different way the vet might say the words, every possible different reaction I might have, every possible next step I could take upon hearing them. Preparing myself to come home to an empty apartment, with no big blue eyes staring up at me lovingly. No one telling me how horribly busy her sunbeam-sleeping day has been. I’m preparing myself to sleep alone every night, not to hear her soft purring from the other side of the bed or feel her making biscuits on my pillow. Not to wake up from a paw to the cheek and a soft meow. Something just seems so final about this time, so different. Something intangible, a certainty with which I’ve only ever felt one other emotion.

I’ve been Fancy’s catmom over half my life. Before I could vote or drive or even cross the street without holding someone’s hand, she’s been my constant companion. I’ve never taken her for granted. Every day, especially for the past few years since we’ve been on our own, I’ve reminded myself that I’m so lucky to have her, and that it’s going to end sometime. But not now! She’s not ready. I’m not ready.

Being a Catmom

Fancy has been sick for a week now. This all started 13 months ago and has been on and off ever since. This time is different. Usually she’s vomiting but otherwise okay. This time, she’s not eating, drinking, pooping, grooming or stretching. She’s not fighting me when I try to give her medicine. Terms like “renal failure,” “pancreatitis,” and “liver disease” float around in my brain.

As the vet examines her, as I ask my parents for their advice, as I comfort her when she’s in pain, I hear what nobody has had the courage to say yet, too. That, if she doesn’t get better this time, it may be time to make the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I cry just thinking about it. In the meantime, I pray, and I do all the research I can do.

And I wake up at night when she wakes up, and I hold her when she’s sick and I clean her when it’s over and I keep her favorite napping corner clean and supplied with the fluffiest blanket. I give her the prednisone every other day, the Periactin when she hasn’t eaten in over 24 hours, a syringe of water every two hours to keep her hydrated, the Cat Lax to help her digestive system.

She never leaves my side when I’m sick or hurting. She’s been with me for well over half my life. I literally don’t remember a time, don’t have a memory of which she’s not a part. If it comes time to make this decision, I don’t think I can do it.

God, please help her.

Happy Birthday, Fancy!

Floofy wittle baby is 12 years old today! Happy birthday, sweetie!

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My Cat is a Damn Genius

Sitting on the table directly in front of me, facing the computer, she heard the vet technician I have on the phone say her name and turned her head in response.

Ah, Life

Hello, Jefferson Animal Hospital; Goodbye minimum of $101 to find out why my cat keeps upchucking.

Diagnosis of a Kitteh

The scene: Arriving home extraordinarily late for work at 9:30 pm. Lack of kitteh presence at door raises acute suspicion. Strange, metallic smell of blood opens veritable floodgates of adrenaline. Inspection reveals dried drops, trails, and smears of kitteh-sneezed blood covering the floor and lower nine inches of every surface and structure in apartment. Kitteh emerges from rarely-used cubby hole often referred to as The Sick Bucket.

Cursory examination: Kitteh appears sluggish, but relatively alert. No blood present on kitteh nose. Kitteh paws suspicious shade of pink, indicates kitteh has bathed blood off said nose. Eyes unfocused, tail droopy. Kitteh prefers to sit with feet drawn underneath body, does not wish to be held, cleaned or petted. Wiggles when picked up. Indicates either normal temperament or discomfort. Unsure which at this stage of examination.

Further examination: Kitteh food bowl shows typical indentation in “food heap” indicating kitteh has eaten normally throughout the day. Water level higher than normal indicates possible dehydration, which may imply impending kitteh constipation. Subsequent examination of litter box, having been freshly cleaned roughly twelve hours previous, reveals no evidence of number one or number two. On tile floor beside litter box, the primary suspect: kitteh hairball. Kitteh appears to have moderate interest in playing with kitteh-appropriate toys, as indicated by half-hearted batting and biting at Mr. Ribbon. Moderate-to-high interest in playing with kitteh-inappropriate toys, as indicated by prolonged batting and swatting at examiner’s spectacles. Upon prolonged observation, kitteh visits litter box in attempt on number two. Several minutes pass with no success. Constipation suspicions confirmed. Immediately after, kitteh visits food and water bowls, eats small amount, and drinks large amount. At one point, examiner takes high-powered, close-range kitteh sneeze to the face, with no blood evident in the expelled mucous. Promising.

Treatment: Still-sluggish kitteh receives warm washcloth bathing of paws, nose, chin, and chest. Very unhappy. When kitteh cools off, will administer 4cc’s CatLax kitteh laxative and hairball formula, despite obvious bad timing. Approximate time for kitteh to reach said state of cooled-downedness to be 24 hours. For now, kitteh is cuddled, chin-scratched, kissed and loved and nuggled, then left to her own devices with the knowledge that kitteh will make self as comfortable as possible. Initiate clean-up of the scene (I now know what it would be like to clean up after a gruesome murder).

Outcomes: Kitteh spends one full night sleeping on stomach atop random box in kitchen. 24 hours after incident, kitteh appears healthy and has returned to normal behaviors. Prognosis: excellent.

Insight: And people tell me I don’t know what it’s like to have kids. A cat. Sneezed. In my face. And the only thing I thought to do was to see if it was bloody or not. I’m pretty sure I never even washed it off.

I can has your soul?

Thanks to Pejo for this unbearably adorable photo of my wittle fwuffy baby!!

Wittle fwuffy Fancy goes to the salon on Monday for her semi-annual haircut and spa day. She’s not nearly as excited about that as I am.

More About Weird Kitty Behavior

If anyone out there has any insight into why my cat sometimes goes completely spastic and starts hissing at and chasing things that for all accounts and purposes do not exist, please let me know. According to my research, I’m the only person on the planet with this problem.

It’s a little creepy when it happens whilst watching America’s Most Haunted Hotels or some cheesy crap like that.

Help! My Cat is Sneezing Blood!

So, ever since I posted about Fancy’s ordeal, I’ve been getting dozens of hits from Google from people searching for answers to why their cats are sneezing blood. When Fancy started doing it, the first thing I did was jump online to see if I could find this phenomenon elsewhere, also, and hits were few and far between.

I’m not a veterinarian, so I won’t make an attempt to diagnose this problem definitively, but my advice to those experiencing this problem is to watch for other behaviors your cat may be exhibiting in conjunction with the sneezing. Fancy would gasp for air during the early parts of her episodes, and it wasn’t until I realized the blood was coming from her nose that I understood she was gasping because her nasal cavity was filling with blood and it was hard for her to breathe. Watch them for changes in appetite (a cat who won’t eat or drink for more than about 18-24 hours is a bad sign; take him/her to the vet immediately), bowel movements (same; Fancy’s x-rays showed severe, severe constipation), and interest in usual activities.

My Cat’s Human: Chapter 3, The Sneezing Saga

One day, I came home a little bit late from work. When I opened the door, no Fancy came bounding into the living room to greet me. Noticeable, but not necessarily beyond the realm of reason. So I called for her. No Fancy. Stranger still. I sat down my computer bag and purse, kicked off my shoes and went to search for her. I looked first in her favorite spot, on top of the tower I built for her to see out the window. No Fancy. Under the bed. No Fancy. In the litter box. Trapped in a closet (because we’d been through that before, trust me). Behind the couch. Behind the chair. Trapped in spare bedroom. In the kitchen cabinets. In the refrigerator. Behind the entertainment center. No Fancy. Around this time, I notice something strange: my entire apartment is covered in cat vomit and some mysterious clear bile-looking stuff.

Finally, panicked and hyperventilating, but relatively NOT officially flipping out yet, I heard a little sneeze from the bedroom. I ran into the room and looked around, finally seeing a fluffy white tail poking out of the cubby-hole in the bottom of her tower. The cubby-hole she had completely and emphatically eschewed ever since I brought the tower home. I knelt down to ask why she hadn’t come out and my heart stopped. Time froze. All the blood drained from my head and I became dizzy and short of breath. She lay there, in that little box completely soaked and covered with bright red blood. Her face was covered in it, her paws, there were smears of it all over her. There was drool hanging out of her mouth that also appeared to be soaking her coat and the cushion on which she lay. Every couple of seconds she would open her mouth and gasp for breath.

Here came the tears. I pulled her out gently, held and hugged and rocked her, mainly to console myself with the reassurance that whatever was wrong, she was still alive. I put her into her bucket and started dialing numbers faster than I ever thought imaginable. It was after hours and all the vet offices were closed. Finally, I got through to a message from Fancy’s primary care physician that gave the number of an emergency affiliate in Louisville. So I got in the car and high-tailed it to the animal hospital twenty minutes away.

When I got to the ER with Fancy, they took her away from me and I started to cry. The nurse assured me they were just going to clean her up and try to see what was wrong while I gave the receptionist all my and Fancy’s information. Finally they took me an examination room and I waited for them to bring my baby back to me and tell me that everything was fine.

They brought my baby back to me alright, but nothing was fine. They couldn’t explain where the blood was coming from, why she was drooling, why she wouldn’t eat or drink, why she was so lethargic; in short, they knew nothing about why my cat seemed to be hemorrhaging from nowhere. The doctor recommended some tests and blood work which I agreed to without much thought as to the practicality of them and $410 later they released Fancy with lots of medicines and a can of special food.

Fancy wouldn’t touch the food, or any food, or any water. Nor would she come out from under the bed, where I imagined her becoming more dehydrated by the second. Finally, after a long, long night, I crawled under the bed and pulled her out to see if she was okay. Her face was bloody again but the drooling seemed to have stopped. I put her on the bed with me hoping she’d just lie down and sleep so I could do the same. Then she sneezed.

Blood splattered all over my clean sheets. Finally, a breakthrough. I called the animal hospital and let them know that I discovered where the blood had come from. They advised me to keep her hydrated and fed and they would contact Fancy’s PCP in the morning to discuss what to do. After a really, really, really long night of mixing the canned food with water and forcing it down my cat’s throat with a syringe while she’s wrapped up in a towel so she can’t kill me (a night oddly reminiscent of her youth), finally the phone rang. Fancy’s doctor had reviewed the paperwork that the hospital faxed him and diagnosed that it’s either just a sinus infection or a nasal tumor. Problem is they can’t run a scope to find out because her nostrils are too small. So we’ll just wait and see. If it gets worse, there’s a $3,000 surgery they can do to see if it’s a tumor.

Well. Okay then. Let me just write you a check.  

Needless to say, I was sick with worry and fear. In the meantime, for two days I kept cramming food and water and medicine down Fancy to no avail. Finally, I had to get out of the apartment or I was going to break down. I went out for about an hour very late that night. When I came home, Fancy came strolling into the living room to meet me as if nothing had happened. I cried. I hugged her and kissed her and she played with Mr. String and the magic red light and everything was fine again. I slept so well that night.

So things were wonderful for about four months. Then one day out of the blue, she starts sneezing blood and drooling all over my new apartment. I decided to just watch her for a day and continue the course of medicine that the doctor gave me last time, as well as the same method for keeping her fed and hydrated. After a day, no change. So I packed her back up and we went back to the hospital. This time, $200 later, they still don’t know what’s causing it. So back home we go.

Next day, everything’s fine again. Until three weeks later when I wake up in the middle of the night to find Fancy puking up the biggest hairball I’ve ever seen in my life. Immediately after, she sneezed and blood flew everywhere, followed by the drool. So now I knew: she hacks so hard getting up these hairballs that she’s busting something in her nasal cavity. Obviously, this makes her sick, and she won’t eat for two days. So, we did the food and water syringe thing again, she got better, and I gave her a haircut. Problem solved. No more sneezing incidents since then.

However, the panicked, crying, head-spinning “Oh my god, I can’t find Fancy” routine would become something of a regular occurrence in our apartment.

Random Thoughts After My First Day of Graduate School

I’m such a better student now than I was as an undergrad. I looked around during class today and saw people (mostly younger than me), surfing the internet, texting their girlfriends, doodling in their notebooks. Never occurred to me to do any of these. I was a rabid doodler as an undergrad; my class notes were barely decipherable amongst all the doodles. But I didn’t make one doodle today. I can’t conceive of the idea of NOT paying attention, of NOT hanging on every single word the professor is saying. It’s unfathomable to me. I want to hit these people upside the head. But I won’t. I’ll just do everything better than them.

Up until twenty minutes ago, I was the hairiest person I’ve ever met in my life. I came back from the casino (more on that in a moment) and, eager to rid my body of Eau de Cigarette before bedtime, hopped in the shower. Whilst thoroughly washing myself, I noticed something disturbing. (No, really, if you’re weak-stomached, stop here). My armpit hair was so long it was CURLY. I’m talking, think Richard Simmons’ fro. Yeah. I had Buckwheat in a Headlock. You’ve never seen a fat girl dive for a razor so fast in your life. Then I wondered what that implied for the rest of my body. I ran a hand over my legs and actually involuntarily let loose with Lesil’s patented Yeti mating call. It was bad. It was a two-razor event. So, Panda, Jenn – your job for the next two years is to remind me at least once a week to take ten minutes away from schoolwork and do a personal hygiene check.

So, casino. Today after classes let out (9:00 am – 4:30 pm, and we got out half an hour early), all I wanted to do was UN-EFFING-WIND. Having contacted my two trusted hanging-out buddies and finding them otherwise engaged, I decided to strike out on my own. Which means, of course, a trip to the casino. I was so pumped, emotionally, by how great class went, that I decided to actually get dressed up (which means clean blue jeans and nice sweater, earrings, makeup, and heels), and go out. I was amazed. So many guys (ranging in ages from 21-over 60) stopped to talk to me, flirted with me, smiled at me from across the room, opened doors for me, gave me Blackjack tips, etc. The trend continued when I stopped at the grocery for some late-night popcorn and Big Red (the soft drink, not the gum, all you non-Kentuckiana-residers). I felt like a woman for the first time in a very, very long while. I lost $90, but I had so much fun, it was so worth it. The Blackjack table I was at was very spirited, very friendly people, very lively, and we all played together for over two hours before I was out of money and it was time to go.

So now I’m home with my loving, lovely kitten resting peacefully on the table next to me while I type. I’m all clean and hairless, relaxed but energized about the future, and ready to watch the Redbox movie I rented today and just enjoy being young and alive. Life is finally good again.

See you in 2010

So, school hasn’t even STARTED, and already I haven’t checked my email in two days, my Celtic woman on Human-Age is probably dead because I haven’t fed her in almost a week, I have no idea what movies are starting this weekend, and I haven’t found time to do laundry all week.

Update – Just checked my Celtic woman and she wasn’t doing well. More worrisome, my wolf, Remus is not happy puppy. His health is at 44% and he’s thinking of leaving me and going back to the forest. For whatever reason, this makes me truly sad and troubled. I feel completely guilty for not having been taking care of this nonexistent virtual wolf.

I have, however, taken over twelve pages of notes (front and back) over the chapters that were assigned on the syllabus for my data analysis class, and started reading the chapter that’s assigned in Strategic Analysis.

Fancy is seriously pissed about me spending so much time with my nose in a book instead of crammed up her ass. I know this because she peed on my backpack. I still snuggle with her during naps and at bedtime, and I took a timeout from my reading today to play with the magic red light. Then I went to pack up all my books and. . . drip. . . drip. . . drip.

This leads me to another thing on which I’ve been procrastinating: updating Fancy’s story here. Promise I’ll do that tomorrow.

My Cat’s Human, Chapter 2: The Road to Independence (is Fraught with Mischief)

Though she would have nothing to do with my mother, father, or brother, Fancy and I were inseparable in our youth. Every night I fell asleep with her lying on my chest, holding one paw out to rest on my chin or cheek. Every morning I woke up with her beside me. She ran to me when I got home from school and rarely left my bedroom. My mother said she rarely saw Fancy if I wasn’t at home, and it was widely known that Fancy had an innate ability to find the most remote, hidden spots in the house and explore them. She could get lost quicker than you could say “here kitty kitty.”

Soon after I entered college, we moved to a much smaller house after my brother moved away. My mother, determined to finally own a house that was NOT covered in cat hair from floor to ceiling, allocated one area only for cats: the huge master bathroom. I cried and protested, but in went Fancy and my mother’s cat, TT. They lived in the bathroom for the duration of my college years. I hated it. They had plenty of room to climb and roam, but I hated being away from her. One night I came home from class and made my immediate trip to the master bath to see Fancy. Fancy was nowhere to be found.

Hysterical, I called my father at work, an act of desperation to be used ONLY in extreme emergencies. He informed me that a plumber had come to the house that day and had to cut a hole in the wall to fix whatever was wrong with the bathtub. No one had seen Fancy since. Panic gripped my fragile heart; that plumber had stolen my cat! My head soon took over – if there was a hole in that bathroom that Fancy hadn’t explored, you’d better bet she would sneak in there. Instinctively, I ran to the basement and started calling for her. Soon, I heard a faint meow and my heart both soared and sank. She hadn’t been catnapped, but she was now stuck between the floor and the basement ceiling. Grabbing the nearest implement appropriate for the job, I began tearing away at the wood paneling ceiling until there was a hole big enough for Fancy to get through. Then I cut away layer after layer of fiberglass insulation that stuck my skin and made me itch like crazy. Finally I got my head up through the hole and saw her, crouched calmly there in the insulation. She crawled towards me a bit, but not much. I had to reach and pull her out. She must have been more scared than she let on, because my thanks for these heroic efforts was the two faint, white scars that now grace my left forearm. She had never bitten me before, and never has since. But I didn’t care; I had my baby back in my arms. I took her upstairs and got her bathed and brushed and calmed down. None too happy, she was eager to get back to the solace of her bathroom, especially now that her savior had turned and betrayed her with comb and soap. What gratitude.

Four years ago, I graduated college, got a job, and moved out of my parents’ house. Of course, Fancy came with me. I worried about taking her away from TT, with whom she had lived in my parents’ master bath for the past four years, but there was no way I was leaving that house without my kitten. After the moving van had gone and all the furniture was arranged, food and water dishes and litter box areas established, beds made and cabinets stocked, it was time to bring Fancy “home.” I had, at that point, never seen her more terrified. The cat carrier (which we call her “bucket”) generally meant a trip to the vet’s office. Not one of her favorite pasttimes, but she never put up a fight, so I didn’t expect a ruckus when I made the last trip back to pick her up. When I put her inside, she began to wail and cry, and reached her paw through the door to try to open the latch. I began to cry. Was I doing the right thing? Would she be okay? After being more or less separated for so long, was I still really her human? My mother convinced me to give it a few days, and if she didn’t adjust, I’d bring her back. So I made the tearful, 45-minute drive to my new apartment hoping beyond hope that she would love it.

She explored the place for all of about three minutes before discovering the bed, and immediately darted under it. Not me nor my roommate could coax her out with toys, food, or treats. So I let her be, and climbed onto my new bed and cried. I was away from my home and parents for the first time in my life, and now my cat hated me for pulling her away too. A few minutes later I saw a little white head slowly emerge from under the bed. She looked left. She looked right. Then came a little red paw. Then another. Slowly, Fancy came out and, as she gained confidence, began exploring all these new places to hide and climb and curl and lie and jump. By the end of the night, she was happy as a lark. As I turned out the light to spend my first night of newly-found independence, Fancy jumped onto the bed, curled up beside me, and went to sleep.

And all was peaceful, until the day my roommate brought home Gizmo, a fifteen-pound Shih Tzu puppy. From that day on, it was war in Apartment 175. Fancy, for the most part, kept to our room. If she ventured out into shared living space, she simply climbed onto some high surface and stared at Gizmo with all the superiority and disdain deserved of cats in comparison to dogs. But there was a war for territory. Gizmo had a habit of having “accidents” all over the apartment, particularly in my room. Fancy, never one to pee on carpet (just on clothes when left in her way, which really pisses her off), would respond by marking her own territory. This went on for a year and half, the entire duration of our cohabitation. Gizmo, to his credit, didn’t torment Fancy all that much. Occasionally he would want to play and would chase an unwilling Fancy at mach 3 into my room and under the bed. But nothing serious. One night Fancy sat on the arm of my big overstuffed chair while my roommate and I watched television. Gizmo began jumping towards her and nipping, just generally picking at her. She watched him intently for a few minutes. He jumped. She issued a warning hiss. He jumped again. She knocked his block off. He ran to my roommate, who consoled him lovingly. I pet and praised her for standing up for herself.

Eventually Gizmo and his human moved away, leaving Fancy and I to fend for ourselves for the first time in our lives. Just a cat and her human. We moved to a small, dark apartment in Louisville. I hated it, but Fancy enjoyed looking out the first floor windows at all the critters in the bushes. She would spend most of her time sitting in windows, and the neighbors came to know her as “that white kitty.” I would received almost daily compliments regarding just how adorable she is.

For the first time in 24 years, I found myself with little to no human interaction in my home, and Fancy found herself with no playmates of any kind. This was, of course, just fine with her. Gradually, we became even closer than we had been in my middle school days. Never a lap cat before, Fancy began climbing on the couch and resting on the arm just behind my head when I watched a movie. She would follow me to the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, and occasionally out into the hall to check the mail, which landed her a right scolding, it did. Eventually we developed an advanced communications system.  A single meow in the general direction of the litter box meant “My box. As you can see, it is dirty.” To signal to me that she desired fresh, cold water in her dish, she would jump into the dry bathtub and stare until the bowl was refreshed. A hop onto the overstuffed chair followed by a paw to the curtains meant “Open the blinds, I want to watch the birds.” We have recently moved to a larger, nicer apartment that suits me better, but she’s still refining her new communication system to better align to the layout of the new digs.

One night following a particularly harrowing fight in a particularly distressing relationship, I lay on my back on my bed and cried. Fancy has always been very in tune with my moods, and the only time she’s ever given me a little kitten kiss was when I was at my worst; rock-bottom, drowning in an unforgiving bout of depression. I cried at my desk and Fancy walked up to me and licked my forehead. One kiss in twelve years. And it made all the difference. But on this particular night, Fancy simply walked up to me, placed her front paws on my shoulder and laid down in the crook of my arm. She took one paw and rested it on my cheek where my tears had been running, and closed her eyes. I finished crying and fell asleep as well. Every night since, we have fallen asleep like that. Or, at least, Fancy stays there until she thinks I’m asleep, then jumps to her position on the right side of the bed.

Being each others’ only companion also brought a new and unexpected twist to our lives; Fancy has gradually transformed from a relatively anti-social and aloof standoff-ish feline to a lapcat with attachment tendencies. Well, lapcat may be stretching it, but she will no longer tolerate being more than a few feet away from me while I’m home. I’m on the couch, she jumps to the couch. I move to the kitchen table, she’s right there. I go to the bathroom, and she’s there. I cook dinner (rarely) and she’s watching me. I open the door and she runs to me. I got quite used to hearing her trot to the door and meow as I fiddled with the keys after work. I would open the door and she would be there, crying for attention and I always say “Oh yes. Tell me how hard YOUR day has been.”

But one day, she wasn’t there.

Coming soon: Chapter 3 – The Sneezing Saga 

My Cat’s Human: Chapter 1, The Early Years

My mother gave me a book for Christmas: Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul. While it’s true that I love cats, the deepest and most dedicated spot in my heart is reserved for one cat and one cat only, for the rest of my life; my Fancy. Reading the stories in the book have inspired me to tell the story of my life with Fancy here. Many of you know Fancy and are fully aware of the exact depth of my fondness for her, many of you are not. Nonetheless, ’tis a story which needs to be told.

Even as I sit at the kitchen table and type this, Fancy sits next to me with her back facing me. It’s not a symbol of her ignoring me or illustrating any typical feline disdain for her human. It’s just one more way that she makes it known that her life is lived according to her terms. Let’s start with the story of her birth.

When I was young, my parents had a friend who got them involved in a rather interesting side business – breeding purebred Pomeranian and Doberman Pinscher dogs and Persian and Himalayan cats. My brother and I served as handy, expendable labor for the endeavor, during which at one point we owned more than thirty animals in total. When our queens would deliver a litter, my parents would watch them grow to determine the quality of each puppy or kitten: breed, show, or sell? Always an animal lover, I got rather attached to the little ones and on more than one occasion would cry my eyes out if one that I particularly loved would sell.

One day, one of our beautiful seal point Himalayans gave birth to a litter of kittens. Among them was a tiny white-and-cream-point girl. The queen was a first-time mother and it was a difficult delivery. My mother and I assisted her, having to pull each kitten free and break the sac of fluid that covered them so they could breathe. One that I delivered was a white and cream point female. Immediately, it was apparent that the mother had no interest in the kittens. She would not nurse them or care for them. Though we tried relentlessly to keep them all fed and cared for, as is most often the case, without the mother’s care, most of the kittens died within a couple of weeks. All but the cream point female. Determined that we would not lose the entire litter, my mother and I (I was around 12 or 13 at the time, and already well-versed in kitten care) offered the kitten a bottle of formula, but she would not drink willingly. We tried force-feeding her with a syringe. She would spit every bit of fluid out. Somehow, we managed, through this every-three-hour-even-all-through-the-night schedule of feeding, to get enough formula IN her instead of ON her to keep her alive for six weeks. By now she had grown a massive coat of long, beautiful white fur and resembled a powder puff more than a kitten. This added a new dimension to our predicament: now, after the fighting/feeding sessions, we would have to bathe her to clean up the mess she made of her coat by spitting everything back up.

One day, my mother had had all she could take. She put a bowl of wet food down in front of the kitten and said “I’ve had it. You either eat on your own, or you don’t eat.” The kitten looked at my mother, blinked her big blue eyes slowly, then hopped out of her bed and sniffed at the food before taking her first bites on her own. From then on, the kitten would be doing pretty much everything on her own terms.

Somewhere through all of this, my mother and I realized we had fallen completely, madly in love with this kitten, and she had definitely formed a certain affection for me. After the massive amount of time we had invested in her, and as beautiful as she was, my parents decided not to sell her, but perhaps breed or show her. She didn’t stay in the cat kennels with the other cats; she took up residence in my room and hence gradually became my cat. In middle school, I went through a desperately earnest Reba McEntire phase, and so named my little rags-to-riches kitten Fancy. It was a name she would come to live up to for the rest of her life.

Soon she was old enough to try to breed. In true Fancy fashion, she was having nothing to do with it. Any sire that got near her was met with a fiesty hiss and a quick swipe to the head. Soon, none would come near at all. So Fancy was spayed. Her characteristic disdain for any person who wasn’t me (this included my mother at this point as well) and other cats did not lend her to a huge future on the show circuit either. Therefore, this beautiful cat that could have made my parents thousands of dollars became a housecat.

Coming soon: Chapter 2,  The Road to Independence

Clean, Shaven Pussy

I just gave my cat a haircut and a bath.  Normally, I take her to the stylist (or what some would call a “groomer” for lesser animals) and have it done so as to spare me the blood loss.  But today, for the first time in about nine years, I did it myself.  I have never been quite so covered in hair as I was when I was finished with her.  And I didn’t do a half bad job, either.  Not the worst chop job she’s ever had. 

Then came the bath and blow dry.  By this time she had basically had all the spirit and will kicked out of her.  But when she realized, after it was all over, that she was still alive. . . she got angry.  And I don’t mean slightly annoyed.  I mean HIGHLY PISSED.  I have, in fact, never seen another species give me a look that so plainly says “Lick my ass, you cocksucker.  Roll over and die and I will devour your rotting, stinking flesh.”

I will not be surprised in the slightest if I wake up tomorrow bald.  Here's hoping Fancy doesn’t grow opposable thumbs overnight.

Quick Update

I have no internet access. Currently pilfering from my parents. Random update:

Money: None
Job: Better
New Apartment: Tiny, but livable
Fancy: Beautiful, wonderful
Jenn: Fucking love Jenn
Lori: Fucking love Lori
Romance: Up and down. I had seven – count ‘em – seven guys contact me last night for some poon, and I told them all to fuck off. Tired of being an irresistible sex object; I want something more permanent. That being said, I completely blew it with one of the most awesome guys I’ve ever met. I’m stupid.
Random insight: It amazes me how quickly we become scripted, and how long those scripts last. Driving home from work one day, I realized that I wasn’t really thinking about how to get to my new apartment anymore. I had only lived there a week, and already had the exact route ingrained in my head. And yet still, I can get to my parents’ house without thinking, and all kinds of obscure places from my past. Wow.
October: October is my favorite month. Had I more money, I would be going to haunted houses, hayrides, making cookies and buying trick-or-treater candy. Were it warmer, I would be going to the park, watching the leaves turn and fall, taking pictures. But I don’t, and it’s not. What a dissatisfying October.

But how I hate to see October go. . .

September Changes Everything

Again, August fell away with little more than a whimper and September stepped in with a resounding boom. September is my least favorite of months. It flies. Everything changes in September. It’s beautiful, but frustrating nonetheless, when the days begin to shorten and tank tops give way to hoodies and sweaters implicative of the impending winter. But September gives way to October. Ah, October is magical! I know it by heart. Every color of every leaf, the crisp and cleansing cool of the air scented with dried leaves lending a memory of old books. October is my favorite of months. And how I hate to see it go.

I’m moving to Louisville. I’m in the process of determining how I feel about that. I’ve always lived in Indiana and I enjoy my life here. True, the prospect of starting all over is slightly appealing, but slightly daunting as well. I have begun packing and have gotten most of the easily accessible stuff boxed up and stacked in a precarious pile in the corner of my room. Already my room feels bare and ominous, like a work in progress, not a comfortable home. It’s true that one accumulates more and more stuff with every move. Looking around, a chill runs up my spine at the thought of having to pack the rest of this crap. Fancy has already discovered that the newly bare surfaces created by the premature packing have afforded her some exciting new places to investigate – and hide and climb and crawl. This will be an issue, I can see.

I worry that I won’t be as happy on Brownsboro Road as I am here in New Albany. This was my first place away from home, and home it has become. It hasn’t occurred to me to be sad about leaving it, but I don’t think I’ve given myself time to think about it. I’ve always believed that home is a concept we carry with us, anyway, so I suppose as long as I have my cat, I’ll be fine.

You know, lots of people have goaded me time and again about the regard in which I hold my cat. I understand she’s a cat, but she’s so much more to me. I have never felt lonely when she has been near. Nothing in my life has ever given me the consistent joy that I feel when I look at her, pet her, or watch her as she stares out her window. Nothing has ever felt so soft and sweet as her wee little paw petting my cheek to wake me up in the mornings. No sound has ever soothed me like her purr. I have never been able to communicate quite so well with a human as I can with her. My constant companion.

The cardboard boxes in the corner have lent a dusty smell to my room. Something about it appeals to me. I think it reminds me of my father’s workshop. I wish I could bottle it.

In any case, the night falls away much like summer.