"... I cried for it all and wondered why so few songs were written about cats."
~David Sedaris
I have a Kryptonite.
Put me in the face of personal danger, loss, or conflict, and I'm likely to make it through. Hell, I'm likely to write fifty songs and build a clothing collection about it. But, tell me that something might be wrong with my friend, pet and roommate of the last sixteen-plus years, and I'm a blubbering mess. A mess, I tell you.
This past week I faced that very challenge.
My exquisite critter fell ill and exhibited some symptoms that were outside of his usual over-eating reactions. I watched it for a few days, adjusted some elements and was pretty sure we'd staved off the worst. Then I left town for the week. For whatever chaotic, un-simple reasons, I run around a lot. Too much. I work here and there, play shows where I do, and have loved ones all over Hell's Half Acre. It's losing its appeal on a daily basis, let me tell you. Anything outside of touring feels like a violation to my personal peace and happiness these days, and I'm working on solutions (Santa and The Great Pumpkin have been brought on as advisors). However, it is what it is right now, and I still find myself drinking Starbucks at airports far more often than I'd like. Amos stays home and watches Desperate Housewives and entertains his assorted visitors when they come to give him snacks and drag his squeaky mouse toy across the floor. (He humors us all with that one. He's like PhD smart at this point, but understands that we simple humans love the idea of cats and mice.) Usually he's just fine. Aside from some boredom that he expresses to me upon my arrival(s) home, he's cool. Well, not this last time.
The aforementioned symptoms worsened in my absence, and one of his visitors called me with a tone of concern in his voice. My heart sank. Not only did it sink in that moment, but it continued to sink for the following thirty-six hours, finally reaching a sort of sub-earth below New York City.
In all of my years as that animal's care-giver, I had never before had to ask someone to take him to the doctor. I felt like a failure. A fraud. Unfit to own and love a creature with my insane lifestyle. Guilt and shame ate me alive as I pictured my very resistant little animal on his way to the hated vet, with a non-me. The horror. Amos is not a "vet animal". We don't make cheerful, annual trips to the doctor for shots and check-ups. Hell-to-the-No. I've seen that cuddly, loving ball of tuxedo'd splendor turn into The Bad Kind of Cat in the presence of medical professionals. Warnings are administered, and when they are inevitably ignored, he follows through on all threats. To the bitter end. In short: he'll cut a bitch. Needless to say, we visit said offices only when absolutely necessary. I'd never dreamed that one of these visits would fall during one of my work trips. Talk about a nightmare.
From me to you, never do this: never look up what "might" be the cause of your pet's symptoms or behaviors online. What you will surely resign yourself to, is the prognosis of a fatal, painful disorder that you were a fool for not having detected sooner. It's the same with us humans, isn't it? All symptoms of the common cold can also be applied to Rye Syndrome, Mono and probably cancer. Forget it. It's a moot point. If you can stomach it, ask for a full work-up to be done, and then exercise some patience (preferably without forcing yourself to start to plan the back yard pet funeral in your mind). You may just be pleasantly surprised. Also, ignore the Doom and Gloom that will be projected on to your situation by The Insensitive. Man, I had no fewer than three men respond to me saying that my cat was sick with something to the effect of, "Oh yeah, we had to put out cat (or dog) down for that". Um, Thanks for NOTHING. These are the same people who love to tell a person like myself about how they were vegan for a while once (lies), and that they became really anemic and malnourished. This is my favorite kind of person. The I-didn't-have-success-with-something-so-there's-no-way-you-will-either variety. I manage to bring out the worst in this species, as I'm a dreamer and dreams are dangerous to some. But, that's a rant for another day. It would suffice to say that every animal is different, including humans, and that a set of symptoms in one will not mean exactly the same thing in another. It's just basic science. There are a zillion variables to consider (diet, blood type, genetics, etc).
There is also hope.
Amos spent one necessary night at the vet's, and two more that I requested. He didn't need to stay for medical reasons, but I felt better about him being there for the remainder of my trip, just in case. For now, we're working with one antibiotic treatment and some magic mix to sprinkle on his food. Fine. I'm not convinced that we're entirely out of the woods, but we're on our way. This experience forced me to face some very intense and scary realities that are on their way in coming years, but not today. Today we'll watch The Easter Beagle and eat Starburst jellybeans like it's 1999. For now, I'm grateful to be present in this moment with my pal. We have been witness to the other's life since October of 1994, and that right there is a gift. Here are some pictures of the beautiful beast that I love, Amos "Fatty" McPhee.
Thanks for listening.
xo, bu
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