tactfullyblunt

bifurcated litany

At first I questioned Bill's decision to wait, but now I know that when the time comes, if possible, I will most likely do the same thing because the possibility of receiving a gift like the one we had with P. last night would be too enticing to pass up.

For the most part, last night was passed with Mr. P in a state of stupor that made it seem as if he'd already left us. And then, right as we were shutting the bedroom up so that we could go to sleep, Bill moved Penn from our bed into his own little wine box bed on the floor so that we wouldn't unknowingly punt him off during our sleep. He spent a few seconds in the box before standing up, staggering the four steps across the floor, and performing the most amazing feat of strength by launching himself halfway up our bed and then scrabbling with his back feet until he pulled himself up into the bed. Penn looked at me drunkenly and then flopped down on the bed. "Wow, I guess he really wants to be with us." Bill said, and we stared at one another for a few seconds, shocked by the short vision of the old, stubbornly lovable Penn.

This morning, after passing the stony night of silence (I'm serious, his breath wasn't even making a sound), he greeted us with loud purring. He hasn't purred for the last two days, which is unheard of for him. I like to think it was his way of letting us know he loved us for letting him sleep with us last night.

I have no more words. This is exceptionally difficult to watch, as it has been one of my cats who indirectly caused Penn's segregation the last two years (Penn attacked Geneva the week before the wedding and has never lost the taste for her blood). I feel an immense amount of guilt for the way he has lived his life, and while everyday I asked Bill if he'd pet his cat yet, if he'd told his cat how much he loved him, and if he'd checked on Penn's water or food, it doesn't make up for this shitty situation at all.

Peace out, Penndle.

I Love to Hate You, I Love to Hate You, I Loooove to Haaaate Yoooooouuu

It's official: Penn's got The Cancer.

There will be plenty of time for retrospectives on the life of Bill's cat later, but for now he is crying above his tranqs, moaning about the state of his existence.

His body has always burned through any meds we've had to give him—8 kinds of kitty psychotic drugs which had no effect on him (except to make him even more homocidal) proved that. But I'd have to say that this is the saddest drug burn through I've ever seen him go through.

Poor Penncil.

You're not much longer going to be trapped in The Pennitentiary.

I hate this cancer thing, man. Fucking blows.

Jesus, He loves Himself a pogostick

The last 24 hours have been a bit painful.

Yesterday we found out that Bill's cat, Penn, probably has mysenteric cancer (for which there is little treatment) -or- FIP (for which there is little treatment). For people who have no children, our cats are our children.

This morning Bill received a call from his sister to say that Mr D had an impromptu appendectomy. The update on that is that the appendix had already exploded by the time they opened him up and that he'd had some infection in there. They scooped him out like a cantaloupe but are going to keep him in the ICU for the next few days to make sure he's ok.

Our house, meanwhile, has been in a constant state of upheaval since before Halloween. This has caused Bill's other cat, Teller, to begin leaving us lovely little presents of the smelly variety all around the house. To say that this is annoying is putting it mildly, especially since it was only two months ago that I was going on and on about how our cats don't piss all over the place. As a way to remedy the situation, the only thing we can do (besides hurry up and finish the construction already before our obviously Felix Unger cat floods us with urine) is to put Feliway dispensers in every room, spray enzyme crap everywhere, and attempt to squeeze enough time into the day to reassure him that everything is going to be ok. I'm beginning to think that there is not enough reassurance in the world, however, because just the other day, immediately after I gave him the reassurance he was craving, he went and pissed on the floor. [He just went to the vet and there is nothing wrong with him, so this is definitely behavioral.]

I am really at the end of my rope with this cat and have contemplated that perhaps in order to figure him out I need to walk a mile in his shoes. When I'm hungry, I'm just going to piss on the floor. When I'm lonely, the same thing. No one's come to clean my bathroom for a while? Ditto. Bill spends too much time working and not enough time giving me pets? You got it. Someone calls me with more bad news? That person is going to get a snoot full of funk.

musings of a monday

If we are a nation of conservative hick rednecks, how come the majority of commercials running right now use alternative music to market their products?

In researching images to represent the concept of priority, why do the first three pages show corporately dressed women in various poses on the phone or in front of the computer, a little too obviously ignoring toddlers, most of whom are screaming? The toddlers, not the women. (Well, some of the images do show a screaming woman, but those are in the minority.)

My father called yesterday to tell me about the most recent rumor one of his "friends" had shared with him about his upcoming surgery. Seems some fool decided to tell him that he will lose the ability to have an erection—for the rest of his life. This was enough of a concern for my father that he said he's been seriously considering not going through with the surgery at all. This conversation left me thinking several things:

1. Wow. It's nice to be old enough that I'm not squeamish about acknowledging my father as a sexual being. In fact, it makes me love him more that he can talk about it so openly with me.

2. Thankfully, I've done more research about the potential side-effects of his upcoming surgery than he has and am able to dispel these ridiculous (and overtly cruel) rumors these fright-mongers have been telling him over the course of the last few weeks.

If I were given a moment with this particular loser, I would say "How about I come over to your house and give you a homemade Brachy therapy treatment and then we'll see how much you want me to tell you that not only are you getting older, not only do you have cancer of the privates, but now your whole sexuality is caput? I didn't think so."