Wednesday, Feb. 02, 2005
Dear Diary:

When I came home from the gym and opened the door to go upstairs I knew instantly something was wrong. Even from the bottom of the stairs I could hear Vera's breathing.

I felt so many things at once. Sadness for the cat, fatigue that this respiratory problem doesn't seem to be resolved, anger that all our best efforts don't seem to be enough. I took Vera on my lap and could see that her nose was running again, that she was swallowing mucus. She was back being Darth Vera.

I phoned the spousal unit. "I have trouble hearing you," he said. That was because I had a lump in my throat approximately the size of the Rock of Gibraltar. When I tried to speak louder the dam broke and I started to blubber.

On the outside I am 53. Inside? Six, going on seven.

There is so much stress in this. It's not just the love I feel for Vera, it's the worry that my other cats will come down with this. They're already stressed over the sudden isolation to the downstairs. Zubby isn't eating as much as he should and Enid's fur is getting dry to the touch.

This is more than I signed on for.

The poor spousal unit did the "there, there, shh, shh, it will be alright" that I needed to hear and told me to call the vet. If Vera needed more drugs we would get them.

It's probably a good thing I had my sissypants crymonkey snifflefest with the spousal unit because when I called the vet I was able to perform a remarkable impersonation of a mature 53-year-old woman. I explained the symptoms rationally. There was no blubbering. The vet told me that the fact that Vera had been getting well was an excellent sign and what was happening now was probably her lungs dislodging some mucus.

Keep her well hydrated, was the advice. Oh, and spend some time in the bathroom with her.

Yep, you read that right, in the bathroom.

What Vera needs to help her with the phlegm is warm, moist air. Since a cat is loathe to stand with its head under a towel, perched over a bowl of hot, steaming water, you have to bring the steam to the cat. Which meant that I shut the bathroom door and turned on pure hot water in the shower, turning the bathroom into Vera's personal sauna.

Shut up. This is not excessive.

What happened next, well that's excessive.

When I got down on the bathroom floor beside Vera to comfort her, I quickly realized that the warm, moist air that would help her lungs was higher, that I needed to get the cat up a bit.

So I put the toilet seat down and sat on the toilet with the cat stretched out on my thighs. The only way I could keep my thighs level for the cat was to raise my feet up to tiptoes. Vera had to stay in the bathroom at least half an hour for the steam to do any good, the vet said. So for half an hour I sat on the rock hard toilet seat, cat on my thighs, feet on tiptoe.

Now let me say this about toilet seats. They may be designed for many things, but sitting on them for half an hour is not one of them. So my butt started to hurt. There is really no back support on a toilet since the supposition is that you will only be there for a relatively short time. So my back started to hurt.

Ah, but that was nothing. Being on my tiptoes meant my calves were contracted. They started to scream. And meanwhile, this tiny little fluffy ball of fuzzy stretched out on my thighs and purred softly. Her breathing did get a bit better.

At the end of the half hour I opened the door and Vera scampered out of the bathroom.

Me? I was the tall person limping out behind her.

I sweartogawd, this cat is going to be the death of me.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 118.85 miles. Almost all exercise bike miles, far easier to accumulate than elliptical machine, stairmaster or treadmill miles.

Goal for 2005: 1,250 miles - 2000 kilometers


Going Nowhere Collaboration

.:Comments (20 so far):.

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (20 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.