Be careful what you joke about.

Because of her menacing attitude, the spousal unit nicknamed our new cat Vera "Darth Vera" mimicking that odd little Darth Vader breathing sound every time she stomped into view.

Now she's making that sound herself every time she breathes which would be funny except that she's sick, as the lovely, the talented Kaffy predicted in my comments a few days ago.

As in really sick. As in respiratory infection. Oh crap.

Vera'd been getting ever more surly for the last few days but I figured that was attitude coupled with the stress of moving from the shelter, carving out her place here with our other cats, Zubby and Enid. I didn't think about health problems because after all, the tiny cat was eating like a horse.

Then she started the occasional sneeze. Uh oh. And then yesterday afternoon she just crashed, and her breathing sounded terrible. I called my vet who said she'd squeeze her in between appointments, and the spousal unit and I raced her in.

On the 45 minute drive to the vet, the spousal unit and I had some hard choices to discuss. My sister lost a cat three years ago to a respiratory infection, piling up over $500 in vet bills along the way. We don't have that kind of money.

So while this tiny little life wheezed away in my lap we had to discuss just how far we would go financially. I have grown extremely attached to this wee ball of cranky, so just contemplating losing her left me weepy. Smear that all over with the thick, luscious guilt of putting a price tag on her life, a limit on what we would spend.

Fun on a stick.

The vet thinks that the infection is only in Vera's upper respiratory tract. We've got a ten day round of antibiotics and if things don't improve markedly by day three, then we ratchet it up with more powerful antibiotics and cortisone.

If that doesn't work ...

Well, let's not go there. Not now.

After 12 hours of antibiotics, Vera continues her Darth Vader impression but her mood and energy are a lot better. For the first time since we've owned her she's "talked" to me, made little meows of greeting, so it appears she's feeling a bit better even if she still sounds terrible.

When we got home we had to throw out all the cat food and litter and disinfect everything Vera's used, since her infection is insanely contagious. Zubby and Enid are both vulnerable to it and we have to watch them like hawks now.

Crap crap crap crap crap.

This afternoon I have to call the shelter and warn the woman that runs it that she may have a respiratory infection lurking there. I'll bet that's just what an organization that runs on a shoestring needs.

Not.

I have Zub and Enid locked on the ground floor of the house and Vera is locked upstairs with her own separate food bowls and litter. To go from my office upstairs to the kitchen downstairs is somewhat like crossing from East Berlin to West Berlin during the days of the Cold War. As soon as they hear me move, the cats all queue up on either side of the door, hoping to bust through to the glorious freedom of the other side.

I have ten days of this to deal with. Ten days of crankypants cats trying to weasel into places they shouldn't go. Ten days of washing hands before I pet cats. Ten days of wondering if the little cat is going to make it. Aye carumba.

Today we're all out of sorts. I'm run down from my anaemia and from the stress of not sleeping from worry about Vera last night. Zubby and Enid are steamed because they prefer to grab their badly needed 22 � hours of daily sleep on our bed, which is now in VeraWorld. Vera is quite steamed because she can't stomp around downstairs and intimidate the other cats.

Vera is living proof, though, that where there's a will there's a way. The cat most likely to build a death star has found a way to fulfill her intimidation needs. She stands at the bottom of the stairs from time to time and wheezes trash talk at Enid and Zubby through the door.

This is Vera half dead from a respiratory infection. I'm almost afraid to see what she's going to be like at 100% full health.

--Marn