*blink, [...]]]> When you open the door of your apartment to find your boxer-clad husband standing awkwardly with a kitten in one hand and a jar of some unknown substance in the other, the last thing you want to hear him say is, “Hold on, I was just blocking a hole that the cat just came out of.”

*blink, blink*

I took Mildred for her first ever checkup the other day.  Of course she went and tested positive for Feline Leukemia, the little bitch.  Of course I immediately threw up in my mouth and spent three days trying to fall at least the tiniest bit out of love with her.  Of course I couldn’t.  Have you seen that frickin’ face?

That still fits in my mouth, ps.

So we ran the test again and the little diva came back negative.  False alarm.  Obviously Rocco has already managed to pass on his flair for the dramatic to the tiny gato.  Next thing you know, they’ll be sharing tiaras and fighting over who gets top billing.

We had a few friends over the other night, and they demanded I prove that Mildred’s head fits in my mouth.  Fortunately, I’d just wolfed down a piece of parmesan cheese.  While I think stinky cheese makes my breath smell like I just blew a zombie, Mildred thinks it’s downright intoxicating.  She was twirling around my feet in anticipation.

People always think there’s some sort of intense preparation for our trick.  Really, it’s quite simple.  1 ) Pick up cat.  2 ) Open mouth.  3 ) Insert cat.  4 ) Pause for photos.  5 ) Remove cat.  6 ) Close mouth.  7 ) Pet cat.  8 ) Let the applause and admiration wash over you.

As I was signing autographs, one of the girls turned to Rocco and asked if he did it, too.  He paused dramatically before answering.  “I tried it once with Simone.”

“You did?”  I asked incredulously.  “I’ve never seen you do it.”

“Well,” he hesitated.  “I tried it when no one was around.”  He looked at the floor while the rest of us looked at each other with uncertainty.

“And?” someone finally asked.

“It was horrible,” Rocco whispered hoarsely.  His pitch slowly rose as he described the carnage.  “I took a deep breath then grabbed her with both hands and tried to work her head into my mouth.  She wasn’t having it.  Suddenly my head was surrounded by a mass of fur, teeth and claws.”  His voice lowered both in pitch and volume.  “I never tried it again.”

“Who’s a good kitty?” I thought to myself.

The similarities between the two cats are downright creepy.  I swear, sometimes I think Mildred is Simone reincarnated.  Not that I believe in reincarnation.  Not that I DON’T believe in reincarnation.  Wait, I can’t remember what I believe anymore.  Regardless, this kitten has me wondering.

Simone was a gorgeous cat.  Stunning.  (Not that I’m biased.)  Yet for some reason, I never painted nor sketched her over the course of her thirteen years.  Not once.  I took plenty of photos, but they were always disappointing.  They never captured her fierce heart or beauty.  If a photo couldn’t do it, how the hell were globs of paint going to?

But the other night, as I tried to stay distracted and ignore the very real possibility that I would have to put our newest mound of whiskered adorableness to sleep, look who showed up on my sketchpad:

Simone In Blue

Who’s a good kitty, indeed.

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She Totally Got Stuck

I think she might be stupid.

I can already hear you dog people, “All cats are stupid.”  Well boo hiss to you. [...]]]> Mildred has arrived.  She’s already ruling the apartment with an iron paw.  She also spends a lot of time walking in circles around my neck which is mildly distracting – and a-frickin-dorable.

She Totally Got Stuck

I think she might be stupid.

I can already hear you dog people, “All cats are stupid.”  Well boo hiss to you.  Lucy is stupid for sure, but Simone was wicked smart.  Mildred is…well, we’ll see.

Most importantly?  I know you’ve all been waiting with baited breath to see if she would pass the crucial test to qualify as the next love of my live.  And she has.  I can totally fit her head in my mouth.  I took pictures, but Rocco said I’m not allowed to post them on the internet.  There was something about PETA and hate mail and legal proceedings.

Fucker.

He was really quite adamant, so no pictures of me with Mildred’s head in my mouth for you.  She really prefers to spend the bulk of her time in my crotch, anyway.  Then again, who doesn’t?

Sorry, Mom.

In other news I really can’t stop thinking about the whole dead body / organ donation thing.  I was talking about the whole “tainted organs” thing with Gwen, and she was pretty sure at least some of my organs could still be used.

“They were able to use my mom’s eyes, even though she was blind as a bat,” she shared as we wandered through the park.  ”I bet they could use your eyes.”

“Do you think they gave the recipient a copy of your mom’s prescription?” I asked.  ”Maybe a pair of her glasses?” I continued.  As usual, Gwen looked at me blankly and shook her head, horrified.

But seriously!  I need to know!  When this apartment sells (And it WILL GODDAMNIT!!  This fucking weekend.  Mark my words.  *sigh*) I’ll leave the manuals for the a/c units, the microwave, the fridge, et all.  I’ll leave my pile of delivery menus.  I’ll leave my collection of house keys.  I’ll leave them everything they could possibly need to work all the gadgets in this joint.

When you sell a car, you leave the manual in the glove box, don’t you?  If you sell your old Nintendo on Craigslist, you include all the controllers and set-up instructions.  If you order a wife off the internet, you expect some sort of operating guide as well as the necessary visas.  It’s just standard practice, Interwebz.  Why wouldn’t you do the same with body organs?

For example, if someone inherited my liver I assume someone would hand them a small glossy notecard that says “Saturate fully with wine or other spirits at least 2x per week.  During the months of June, July, and August, focus on white wines, vodka sodas, and cheap, shitty, domestic light beer.  Stick with red wines the remainder of the year.  Approximately once a quarter, swear to your liver you’ll be nicer and drink less when the weather changes.  But don’t.  She can take it.  I promise.”

I’ve promised my kidneys to no fewer than seven people at this point, so I can’t imagine they’ll still be around by the time the slicing and dicing begins.  But if they were, I assume there would need to be a wordy disclaimer explaining that the surgeon is unable to guarantee the filtering ability of those bad boys since they’d already worked their way through fifteen lifetimes of margaritas.

The heart – that would take an epic manual with a long, long “Troubleshooting” section.  ”Q:  My new heart seems to shudder and race each time I hear a Police song or spot a sparkly vampire.  Should I be worried?  Can you make it stop?  A:  No.  That feature comes standard.”

For the person that ended up with my bladder, a simple scrap of notebook paper with these scrawled words would be sufficient:  ”Sorry it’s so small.  PS – don’t  break the seal.”

Man, I just hope they don’t use chunks of my skin for penile implants.  I don’t need more reasons for people to call me a dick.

Oh snap!  Today is the last day to enter my contest and win your very own custom original one-of-a-kind Elly artwork.  Hell, if you win, you could make me draw a penile implant made out of cadaver skin on a greeting card for your least favorite boss.  Please don’t make me do that.  I’m having enough nightmares as it is.  I’ll announce a winner on Monday.  Oh the excitement!

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I love you, [...]]]> As I mentioned, I (and my gravity defying boobs) have suddenly been thrust (good boob verb, right?) into the whole I-really-have-to-dig-in-and-get-some-shit-done-and-fast world…and it’s kicking my ass.  Hard.  As exhibited by that incredibly well constructed paragraph and the brain sludge that is leaking out of my ears and pooling within these lace edged demi cups.

I love you, Interwebz.  You know that.  But I have to save a little of my brain for the people that pay me (especially if Wicked Shawn makes good on her threat to take my shopping for panties).  So I’m going to cheat today.  Good thing I know how to embed videos, eh?

First – I give you my hero and mentor Sue Sylvester.  I lurv her – almost as much as I love cheesecake, Twilight, and miniature unicorns wearing tiny sneakers.  In case you live under a rock and didn’t watch Glee last night (we should probably break up), here’s her Vogue video.  All hail Sue.

Second – Earth Day is fast approaching, so I’m dusting off my fair-trade-certified-paraben-and-phalate-free soap box.  Rocco does many things that annoy me (SHOCKER!), but the one that makes me the absolute craziest is his need to leave the car engine running as he listens to the end of a news piece on the radio.  The radio works without the engine running.  I’ve checked.  For reals.  This video sums up my opinions on car idling.

Lastly, you know how I’ve been in the market for a new kitten?  Poor Lucy misses the love of my life almost as much as I do, and she’s just starving for some company.  This little nugget is too young to leave her mama yet, but look at this furry wad of cuteness.  In other news, I’m pretty sure her name is Mildred.

She’s so cute I’m doing one more.  After she bats at the glass, you have to hang on a little longer and watch her bow-legged walk.  I dare you to not coo and giggle out loud.

I’m going to lose twenty readers after this ridiculous kitty fest, aren’t I?  Ah well.  I guess it’s a good thing I scored a day job, eh?

This may be a good time for you to visit one of the beauties on my freshly updated blogroll.  They doubtlessly have something profound and witty to share in my brain dead absence.

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For example, I have a friend that we affectionately call Creamed Corn.  You need not know the reason [...]]]> You might be surprised to learn that I have some pretty weird friends.  I’ll just pretend you all responded correctly.  In case you’d like to play along at home, any of these responses will work: Gasp!  What?!  Not you!!

For example, I have a friend that we affectionately call Creamed Corn.  You need not know the reason why, Interwebz.  You need only know that it is his nickname, and it suits him perfectly.

Creamed Corn has a thing for vinyl.  Not my kind of vinyl – shiny grooved discs that are my far the best medium for recorded music.  No Creamed Corn likes the kind of vinyl that covers the chairs in doctors’ offices or the kind Lady Gaga uses for elaborate masks/head-dresses.  THAT kind of vinyl is his thing.

I remember chilling in the living room with Gwen one afternoon, when Creamed Corn popped around the corner and asked if it was possible to iron vinyl.  It seemed he’d snagged a roll of white vinyl from a fashion show and had set about making sheets for his bed.  I mean, what would YOU do with an extra roll of white vinyl?  I thought so.

This is the guy who once said, “There is no such thing as too much vinyl.”  When he realized that the moisture factor made vinyl sheets somewhat unpleasant in early August, he decided to repurpose the sheets into a sheik lining for his bedroom closet.  His apartment is filled with random dead rat and dead cat vinyl sculptures.  At Christmas, he decorates his tree with home made vinyl garlands depicting reindeer in compromising positions.  There is no limit to what the man can do with his favorite medium.

While somewhat eccentric, Creamed Corn is also a giving man.  Not only did he make Pegger the Kegger a pair of vinyl crotchless panties for Christmas, the following year he made vinyl bras and panties for my entire family (in-laws included – lucky bitches) so no one would feel left out.  I can’t imagine how many hours he spent at his little Hello Kitty sewing machine that year.

He does commissions, too.  When we found out Mom was going to get to keep her nipple after her biopsy, Creamed Corn eagerly whipped up a pair of vinyl shamrock pasties at my request.  He even pointed out he had lined them “for maximum comfort.”  Initially he asked for photos of the pasties in use, but later changed his mind when Mom offered to model the panties as well.

The moral of the story is Creamed Corn is creative, generous, and maybe a tidge of his rocker – just the way I like ‘em!  When he sends me links, I’m always just the teensiest bit hesitant to click.  (I mean, he did go through a phase where you’d end up with a giant rubber fist in your bag if you left it unattended in his presence.)  You just never know what to expect.  That link could be a video of a Barbary Ape slow dancing to an Air Supply ballad, or it could just as easily be four clown midgets doing interpretive dance with spray cheese.

Paper Bag Boozecat

Yesterday I was in a gambling mood, so I went right ahead and clicked.  It was magical, I tell you.  I have a new guilty pleasure!  I might even stop counting down to the next showing of New Moon with this new joy to distract me.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Boozecats.

Here’s the basic premise: apparently this dude (I’m assuming it’s a dude) and his friends realized they didn’t have a single photo of themselves where they were not holding some form of alcoholic drink.  These are my PEOPLE!  What happens when you combine the need for a non-drink holding photo, mad photoshop skillz, and a couple bottles of Boone’s Farm’s finest?  Yup, it’s called Boozecats.

Where else can you find your two favorite things combined?  (I’m just going to assume that you share my penchant for kitties and alcohol, Dear Reader.  Try to tell me I’m wrong.)  This one makes me miss Simone even more than usual.  Granted, I never stuck THAT end of a cat in my mouth, but the sentiment is the same.

I’ve just lost twenty minutes of my life giggling at people drinking kitties.  Perhaps I need to get out more.

Does life get better than a frat boy drinking a kitten in a pint glass?  No, I state unequivocally.  It.  Does.  Not.

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Me:  I’m ok mostly.  This week has really been full of ups and downs.

Dad:  That’s just par for the course.  You do live on the 3rd floor.

She smelled like maple syrup.  I’ve got no idea why or how, but she did.  She’d crawl into my lap and trill in her kitty way that it was time for some sweet, sweet lovin’.  I’d rub her kitty cheek bones, stroke her long black hair and lean in for a deep breath of [...]]]>

My Simone

She smelled like maple syrup.  I’ve got no idea why or how, but she did.  She’d crawl into my lap and trill in her kitty way that it was time for some sweet, sweet lovin’.  I’d rub her kitty cheek bones, stroke her long black hair and lean in for a deep breath of syrup scented goodness from her warm shoulder blades.  I miss her.

She played fetch.  Sitting on the carpeted floor during study breaks, we’d spend hours tossing and retrieving.  She liked those fake furry mice, but tie-line was her favorite toy to fetch.  After we’d moved to Hells Kitchen and I was no longer hanging lights with the North Carolina Shakespeare Festival, it was harder to replenish her supply.   I think that’s why she fell in love with Rocco so quickly; he’d bring over a fresh batch of tie-line for her sassy ass each time he visited.  I miss her.

High in the Heights

She was a social butterfly and always craved the spotlight.  When it was just we two living in our strange condo community of retired widows, she’d chew her way through the screen door and break into the neighboring condo to visit another cat.  Countless times I’d pull up in Eddie, my little gray Saturn she loved riding in, to find her standing on my rooftop, mewing a welcome home.  I’d jog down the hall and out the back door, laughing.  She’d come bounding over the crest and wait patiently for me to hop onto the retaining wall and pull her into my arms.  I miss her.

Mone in a Bag

She was so poufy you’d have guessed she weighed twice as much as Lucy, but she was light as a feather.  I loved to watch her bathe.  She’d start by licking her right paw and cleaning her tiny white milk mustache.  Then she’d move on to the snowy white hair on her chest.  She’d rear her head back and start the lick right under her chin.  In a quick, graceful movement she’d bob her head downwards, jut out her chin, and pull her head back in one long sweep of her tongue.  Many a time I caught her at the end of that lick, head pulled back as far as it could go, with another half inch of hair to lick – completely flummoxed.  I miss her.

When I lay aching and sobbing on the couch, shivering cold but unable to tolerate a hat on my bald painful head, she’d hop up on the pillow above me curling her soft warm belly around my crown.  I got more solace from her sweet face than I can ever express.  She was sick before I was diagnosed and sick once I got better, but somehow she spent a solid year taking care of me.  I think I wore her sweet little heart out.  I miss her.

Her Royal Gato-ness

She was also a raving bitch.  She knew she was the alpha cat and had no hesitations to abuse her authority.  If Lucy slept peacefully in my lap, Simone need only utter one hiss from the ground before Lucy obligingly vacated the space for her majesty.  No matter how soundly I might be sleeping, she had no reservations about laying on my chest and kneading my throat until petting commenced.  I miss her.

I could fit her head in my mouth.  It’s probably best not to ask how we figured that out, but she’d watch calmly as I opened my maw as wide as possible then close her eyes and purr as I lowered my head over her whiskers.  Back in the light, she’d toss her head, twitch her ears and wait for applause.  We were quite a hit at parties.  I miss her.

Sweet Face

Kneeling on the cold linoleum floor so our faces were at the same level, I begged for her forgiveness and thanked her for thirteen wonderful years.  As I kissed the soft forehead above her blank yellow eyes, she started to purr.  “Liar,” I whispered, “But I love you, too.”  I miss her.

She knew the sound of my footsteps.  Rocco said he always could tell I was in the building before he heard my key in the door.  As soon as I started climbing the first flight of stairs, she’d rush to the door and chirp a welcome.  No one greeted me Saturday night when I opened the door, my collar soaked with tears and rain, an empty carrier on my shoulder.  No one demanded treats on Sunday after Rocco dragged me through a beautiful sun filled day.  No one will play hide and seek with me after drinking a glass of wine and rolling in a mound of catnip.  No one will sit on the lid of the toilet tonight as I brush my teeth, fussing for me to hurry so we can cuddle.  I miss her.

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I was running late (as per usual) to meet Matt and Gwen for the quintessential [...]]]> Remember my tale of the kamikaze bird that scared the bejeezus out of my ass while in North Carolina?  Can you imagine how crazy that would have been if the window had been open?  No?  I can – because it happened yesterday.

I was running late (as per usual) to meet Matt and Gwen for the quintessential Jersey night out – a shopping trip to Target and dinner at Chez Outback.  Somehow I’d completely lost track of the second half of the day.  I’m telling you, when I’ve got to give Simone fluids I lose all relation to the time space continuum.  When it goes smoothly it’s not too bad, but yesterday the seventh try was the charm.  Did I mention my easel now doubles as an IV pole?

So Gwen called to say they were just around the corner a mere moment after I realized I had applied mascara solely on my left eye and I was still wearing my “indoors only” britches.  In a tizzy, I scrambled around the apartment to find some appropriate denim and a mascara wand.  Simone lifted her head and stared blankly at the wall in support.  I briefly wondered where Lucy was hiding.

Mascara (and deodorant even!) fully applied, I headed to the bedroom to find my shoes.  There I caught a glimpse of Lucy.  She stood in the back hallway leading to our fire escape – or the Land o’ Litter as I like to call it.  It’s a long narrow space where we store the luggage, spare light bulbs, Rocco’s 472 Dewalt cases, and a whole mess of boxed-up pottery pieces.  At the end of this hall, shining down on our collection of litter boxes is the one window in the apartment that isn’t situated directly above a bus stop.  Coincidentally, it’s also our access to the fire escape and quite often my means of breaking and entering on those frequent occasions where I’ve locked my ass out of the house (cat optional).  I like to open this window on nice days so we can get some fresh air in the house without getting that creepy black bus exhaust dust on everything.

You’ve probably guessed by now that yesterday was an exquisite day.

You’ve probably also guessed said window was wide open.

Unless you’re foolish enough to believe we don’t need health care reform, you’ve probably also figured out that we’re to the bird part of this story.

I’ve mentioned that my other cat, Simone has gone blind, right?  Well, as you might imagine, a blind cat leads to some rather interesting surprises in the litter box area.  Most of the time, she finds the box and climbs in.  I just don’t think she realizes her ass is hanging out over the edge.  Then again, I think she just gets tired of trying to find the damn boxes.

She reminds me of Gwen with a shopping car in a parking lot.  She’ll start out strong, pushing the cart towards the metal corrals with the best intentions, but somewhere in there she loses momentum and decides that so long as she’s in the general vicinity, leaving the cart in the spot adjacent to the corrals is good enough.  I think Simone often feels the same way about her business.  You get the idea, right?  I can stop with this analogy?

Anyway, since Lucy was doing who knows what back in the Land o’ Litter, I thought I should take a quick peek to make sure all the carts were in the corral, if you will.  No sooner than I stepped through the beaded curtain, a flurry of feathers dove at my head and whizzed towards the window.  I screamed.  Lucy licked her lips.  Simone remained napping on the other side of the apartment.  The phone rang.

Cowering on the ground, I army crawled back into the bedroom and retrieved the phone.  “We’re downstairs!” Gwen sang.

“There’s a bird in my house.”

“What, like you’re roasting a chicken?”

“No, a bird….like a flying bird…in the back hall.  What the fuck do I do?!”

“There’s a bird in her apartment,” I heard Gwen repeat to Matt.

“Doesn’t she have cats?” I heard him respond.  “Problem solved.”

They were both far too calm in my opinion.

“One runs into the furniture all the time and the other is blind.  It’s a live bird, not an unfortunate infestation of kitty chow.”

“Wow, I can’t hear what she’s saying but that’s a pretty high pitch,” I heard him comment to Gwen.

“I’m gonna be a minute,” I huffed and hung up.

As Lucy ran from one end of the hall to the other in a spastic dance of stalking joy, I put on my battle gear.  Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I steeled my nerves.  I screamed like a little bitch yet again when the loud hiss of the door buzzer filled the apartment.  Scared herself, Lucy took off towards the bedroom and bounced off the dresser.  Sweet, my hetero life partner was going to bail my ass out, yet again.  I hit the “door” button and let Gwen into the building.  Me and my nerves of steel did an internal high five.

Little Miss No-Nonsense-Nursing-Student strode in with great purpose and determination.  There was an Outback salad with Ranch in her future, and no trouble making bird was going to stand in her way.  “Do you have a broom?” she asked before the door swung shut behind her.

Gwen and her Broom

I haven’t seen such grace and agility since Lucha Va Voom.  Granted she lacked both the spandex and the face mask, but otherwise the whole thing looked pretty choreographed and well thought out.  I suspect she’s done this a time or two before.  Lucy and I huddled together in the doorway offering helpful comments and shrieking when appropriate.  “I’m going to run get the camera,” I said after a particularly frightening close encounter of the winged kind.

I returned in time to snap one measly photo.  Gwen had that poor bird back into the wild before I could refocus.  Damn.  Lucy looked pretty disappointed, too.  Then again, all was back to normal, no one had their eyes pecked out, and the only animal feces in my hallway belonged to my two furry hellions.  I figured I should focus on the positives.

“Get your shoes on,” Gwen calmly stated as she handed me the broom.  “I’m hungry.”

This is why I need to live closer to that girl.  She gets shit DONE and never worries about breaking a nail.

Thanks, Gwengie.  I owe you a margarita.

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Turns out her teeny tiny heart is now kicking out a BP of over 300.  They also called Saturday [...]]]> All is not well on the kitty front.  All isn’t bad exactly, just decidedly not good.  We went back for more tests to see if any of the new drugs were working.  The answer?  In a word, no.

Turns out her teeny tiny heart is now kicking out a BP of over 300.  They also called Saturday morning to tell me a whole mess of other scary sounding things were at scary sounding levels.  My gato needed fluids – stat.

“But she had such a monumentally shitty day yesterday,” I whined into the phone.  “Can’t I just pick up the pills?”

“There aren’t any pills.  She needs fluids.  Have you ever given anyone shots before?

“I’ve got mad skills with Lovenox loaded syringes…”

“Perfect, do you feel well enough to pick up the fluids?”

Note to self: stop telling random strangers that they need to write down instructions because I’m sick and the “chemo brain is a real bitch today.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Be there in thirty-ish.”

I grabbed yesterday’s denim, threw on a fleece, and shoved some spare kleenex into the pockets since my sinus cavity seems to be spontaneously exploding every twenty minutes or so.  I stopped on the landing to talk to my neighbor about laundry…and completely forgot whether I was coming or going.  I patted down my pockets for clues.  Realizing I didn’t have my wallet, I decided it was best to head upstairs, regardless.  Huge blank discs surrounded by a mass of black fur turned my direction when I opened the door.

Oh yeah.

I was only two blocks away from the vet when I noticed a strange sensation behind my left knee.  Each time my left sneaker hit the concrete sidewalk, the strange feeling moved a little farther down my leg.  Suddenly the weirdness twisted around to the middle of my shin – then I absentmindedly watched my gray stripey sock from the previous day bound out from the cuff of my jeans and onto the street.  I made it at least another seven steps before I grasped what had actually happened.  I muttering a quick thanks to the bartender in the sky that I’d lost yesterday’s sock rather than yesterday’s underwear and darted back up the street.  Sneaking furtive glances around for potential witnesses, I bent to retrieve my wayward knit and shoved it deep into my pocket.

Safely inside the Animal Hospital, the warm air sent my sinuses a-flowing.  Of course I reached into my pocket to retrieve the tissues I brought along for this very moment.  Of course they were beneath the stinky used sock that I grabbed and brought to my face as the receptionist watched in horror.  Of course I looked (yet again) like a total douche.

“The vet told me to stop by,” I mumbled as I tried to pretend the dirty sock covered in day old foot funk and Hoboken sidewalk scuzz was THE latest accessory craze.  I moved it around my face, trying to think of a place where such a monstrosity would make sense.  I ended up tucking it into my newsboy cap and smiling awkwardly.

Hours passed.

“Have a seat,” the receptionist said.  Resigned that I was just a whackadoodle and not likely to cause any physical damage to myself or others with the sock of doom, she waved to the bank of chairs.

My vet poked her head into the hall almost instantaneously.  “You ready to play with needles?”

“Um, sure?”

“Great!  Step into Room 1.”  She leaned back into the creepy area (You know, the place behind the swinging double doors where the civilians aren’t allowed to visit?  The one filled with giant machines and colored vials and embalmed organs?) and shouted, “pick a cat, any cat,” to her henchman in the wings.

The four of us met in Room 1 – the vet, the tech, the Elly, and the striped tabby named Persephone.

“Aw, she’s a sweetie,” I cooed as I noogied her forehead.  The tech got a good grip on Persephone as the vet wheeled the IV pole closer.

“Ok, I’m going to walk you through it, and then we’ll practice on the cat.”

“Really?  I’m going to stab Persephone?”

“Yup, and then you’re going to go home and do it to Simone.”

Additional Note to Self:  Do not board my cat here.

Oh Interwebz, it’s a good thing I didn’t follow my parents’ footsteps and seek a career in the medical profession.  I don’t know how much vomit I swallowed down over the course of the next ten minutes.  Between looking at the ginormous needle, then looking at poor sweet innocent Persephone, I thought for sure the morning’s Zuchana bread was going to join the sweet kitty on the cold, hard metal table.

The vet walked me through the steps.  I pinched the scruff.  I made a tiny skin tent and stuck the bazooka sized needle in quickly, being sure to keep the bevel up.  While I held the needle in place with my left hand, I moved the wheel on the tubing to start the flow of fluids.  I looked back down at Persephone who was getting pretty damn pissy – but not because she had a needle in her back.  No, she was pissed because a pool of cold fluid was forming beside her relatively relaxed form.  Apparently I stabbed a little too swiftly and poked the needle right back out!  I’d administered 100ml of fluid to a dehydrated table.  Who wants help with their flu shot?!  Anyone?  Bueller?

Anyway, long story slightly less long and yet still happening, I managed to dose Simone first try – despite her impressive efforts to thwart me.  (I won’t even begin to tell you about the disaster of Day 2.)  I was feeling mad triumphant until she jumped off the chair and toppled a bit to the right.  A huge mound of ‘Mone bubbled up over her right shoulder blade.  Fortunately I’ve got Dad on speed dial.

“Why hello!  I was just about to slide under the pool table put myself down for a nap.  Let’s see if your mom picks up.”

“I can ask you…did I kill my cat?”

I told him my saga.  He yawned supportively.  “Your cat will be fine.  Well no, not really.  She’s going to die eventually, but you did fine with the fluids.  It will take a while for her to absorb them.”

Well how was I to know?  Persephone didn’t get all poofy on me!  I guess it’s because I test drove a newer model.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Step One (There’s No Box Involved. Nor NKOTB. Promise.)
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• Please Tell Me That White Stuff is Glitter
• Bollywood Booty Shakin’
• Poconos (Part One)