In Which I Return From the (Blogging) Dead with a Fractured Foot

It's been a while, hasn't it? I haven't written a word on blogger in over two months. Interestingly, this development ocurred at almost the exact same time I took a second job working with eight year olds in an afterschool program. This is not a coincidence. Eight year olds are exhausting. And if you're not careful, you can catch the flu from them, and spend your spring break curled up on the couch watching movies on demand.
So, those are two events that have occured in my life since I disappeared; a second job, and the flu. But those are old news. Here's more recent unfortunate medical information; I broke my foot.
Well, I didn't really break it, per se. I have, to be exact, a hairline fracture in my metatarsal. When I heard this news, I thought about the word 'metatarsal', and I was not entirely sure what it meant. The 'meta' part sounded Greek. Context dictated that it was a part of my foot, though I wasn't sure which part. Then my sister explained that your metatarsal is the bone right above your toe. She knew this, because she is an animal science major, and she has taken anatomy classes. So really, all I learned from her is that if I were a horse or a cat, my metatarsal would be right above my toe. However, this was still far more than I had known before.
Everyone who sees me limping around, especially my students, asks me how I hurt my foot. This is somewhat humiliating. I injured it walking down the street. I wasn't even walking very fast. Unfortunately, I was walking in heels. Heels that didn't fit.
A lot of people get injured playing sports, or running, or taking risks. I wish I could be one of those people. I would like to be able to say I fractured my metatarsal while marching for peace, or kicking Dick Cheney, or bringing a vaccine to needy children in Alaska. Or even just, you know, playing soccer. When I googled 'fractured metatarsal', I read that David Beckham fractured his metatarsal once. I don't think he did it in heels.
The good news is, my fracture is not a major fracture. In fact, it is a tiny fracture - so tiny that I am, two weeks later, able to walk long distances, ride a bike, climb stairs, and do almost everything I would normally do, except run. And hike. And dance at the New York Ballet. And play center field at Shea stadium. If only it weren't for my fractured metatarsal, I would be able to do all of these things.
However, as my brilliant baseball/ballet career has been tragically cut short, I have returned to the educational field to work with those eight year olds. Luckily, they're helpful- on my first day back at work, I had five kids "helping" me up the stairs. That's how I knew I was really getting better; I could make it up three flights of stairs with five eight year olds hanging off my every limb.
With that, I leave you- but not for two months this time. I'll be back. In fact, this summer, I may be back with another exciting travellogue...but I'll fill you in on that next time.
-

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.