In Which I Show Up Again And Promise to Keep Writing

Hello everyone. This is just quick note to let you all know that I have in fact been writing again. No, really. I mean it this time. Check out www.ipromisetogowandering.blogspot.com. It even has a huge adorable picture of my cat at the top.

Chloe

My family got Chloe right after I turned nine. She was so small that I was afraid to pick her up at first; I felt like I would hurt her by mistake. She was the most patient cat imaginable, even when my sister and I dressed her up in doll clothes, or repeatedly picked her up against her will. In almost fourteen years, I think the only time she scratched me was when I tried to give her medicine.
Chloe was the most sociable animal I ever met; she would come running to meet you when you came through the door, and wherever there were people to be found, that's where she was. She never really liked other cats as much as she liked humans, and we always suspected that she didn't really think she was one of them. She used to jump on my bed when it was time for me to get up for school. For some reason that we never really understood, she used to carry around red pony-tail holders in her mouth, and sometimes leave them in her water bowl. She was perpetually curled up on the clean laundry, especially the towels, though she sometimes slept on the cable box. Only six weeks ago, to our amazement and horror, she actually caught a mouse. She used to eat ice cream off my fingers, but after she was sick she started eating anything she could finagle from us, and we let her; she ate two whole tortilla chips once, to the utter amazement of my mother and I, and babaganoush, croissant, chicken, yogurt, and even lentil soup. Wednesday evening, the night before she died, I fed her cheddar cheese and she was delighted.
Yesterday I came home from work, and when I opened the door, the hallway was empty. I opened a can of cat food, and I had to split it between two, not three. (How can two cats in one New York apartment not be enough?) I cried.
Every person thinks that their pet is the best, but you're all wrong; mine was. It won't be the same without you, Chloe. We love you.

In Which I Try my Hand At Veterinary Medicine

These are my cats. Here at the top, basking in the sun, is Chloe. She's fourteen. If our house were a royal palace, she would be Queen Elizabeth. Below, grey and a bit rotund, is Laptop, who, as soon as he was named, decided he didn't really like people's laps very much. If this house were a royal palace, he would be Prince Philip; very much royalty, but not the sovereign with his face on all the coins. (Can you tell that I recently saw The Queen, with Helen Mirren? Thus all the British royalty references. But really, my cats are so much more lovable than most of the people in that film. Still, you ought to see it if you haven't.)

And here, at the bottom, is Calypso. You've probably heard about her already. She may be the only one in this household with an EU passport, but she is definitely the Camilla of the household. In other words, it may take another few decades before she is finally accepted into the fold. The trio have moved from constant outright hostility to only occasional outright hostility with some periods in which the King and Queen just ignore the presence of the Greek peasant. However, thanks to my sister, she does have a pillowcase with her picture on it, which is pictured. Perhaps for Christmas Hayley will get her another pillowcase, with this picture of Calypso and her pillowcase both on that pillowcase, and I'm sure Calypso will appreciate it thoroughly.
But pillowcases and cat hostility are not why I'm writing this. Well, actually, cat hostility is why I am writing this, but it's not cat vs. cat hostility, it's cat vs. human hostility that I had in mind.
Poor Chloe was diagnosed with cancer earlier this year, and she's been on a daily medicine regimen ever since. Her health has been remarkably good thus far (knock on wood), but every day she needs 1 mL of medicine to be pushed down her throat with a plastic syringe. She likes this about as much as you might expect, which is not very much. Unfortunately, she's also damn smart, and she has learned that whenever I approach her in the early evening with one hand behind my back, it means that she is due for a dose of medicine. The moment I open the bottle of mysterious tonic, whatever it is, she runs. Sometimes I won't even see her run, I'll just turn to where she was sleeping peacefully five seconds before, and she will have disappeared completely. When she finally comes out of hiding (which doesn't take very long, as she hates to miss social interaction) I have to pounce on her from behind, hold her against me, and stick the little syringe into her mouth. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't, a spray of brown medicine goes everywhere. There are brown spots of medicine all over our couch cover, all over the bedspread in my parents' room, sometimes on the floor, and even on the ceiling. Once, the stuff even ended up in my mouth, and I suspect Chloe somehow engineered that specifically for revenge.

As if this weren't enough, Laptop was recently diagnosed with asthma. Rumor has it he may actually get an inhaler one of these days, which sounds like tons of fun for everyone involved, but for the moment, he's just got some temporary pills. This is easier for the humans of the family, because Laptop is something of a glutton. If you hide the pills in some cheese, he'll gobble it right down. Sometimes. There have been occasions when he gobbled down his cheese and secretly spit the pill onto the floor. If you've never picked up a pill covered in cat spit and tried to turn it into something appetizing, well, I envy you. Luckily, that cat definiion of "appetizing" is different than the human one. Have you seen what canned cat food looks like?

I also realized, after several doses of medicine in feta, that he was coming to be suspicious of feta. I switched to gouda, then to mozzarella, muenster, cheddar, and now to manouri (which I finally found at the market!). That cat is going to be quite the cheese connoisseur by the time he is finished with his medication.

Calypso is the only feline member of the household who is not on medication, but that's OK, because she causes trouble by generally becoming hysterical for no reason on a regular basis. Sometimes she gets very upset when people try to walk past her in the hallway, and she makes a squeaking noise and tries to bat at them. Sometimes she gets upset when she sees another cat, and she lashes out at the people nearby. Once, she got freaked out by the loud conversation I was having, and lashed out angrily at the briefcase leaning in the hallway. Overall, the entire apartment is frequently full of squeaking and yowling and crying and meowing. There is also the occasional bout of hissing, spitting, and general destruction. It's very much like what happens when the seventh graders in my more difficult class have a substitute.