Robots and Cats

In the book I’m reading now (Robopocalypse by Daniel H. Wilson), robots take over the world and attempt to kill all humans.

I’m rooting for the robots. Of course I am—have you seen what humans have done lately?

In the last book, an interdimensional being was trying to turn all humans into cats—domesticated cats not lions, tigers, jaguars and the like.

Can you guess whose team I was on? Yes, Team Naps, Nibbles, and Treats. I would be fine, totally down, with being turned into a lovely little feline. My only question is, will I get catnip daily. Also, tuna.

How much change can a person absorb before everything loses meaning. Living for its own sake isn't life. People need meaning as much as they need air.
~ Daniel H. Wilson, Robopocalypse 

Being a good person is more than just not being a bad person.
~ A. Lee Martinez, Monster

Things You Should Know

Today is the one year anniversary of Cake entering our lives. Our little panther has, I believe, settled in nicely. He has his routines:

• When Ten has a smoke on the front porch, Cake sits at the door waiting for him to come back in. Cake then flops out at his feet, waiting for pats and skriches.
  

• Cake waits by the front door for Jen to return from her hard day in the print mines. Our boy accompanies her upstairs for a visit with me. Afterwards he escorts her back downstairs so she won’t get lost during her travels back to Casa Skitter.

• While I’m being a slug from Planet Sloth, our angelic beast naps at my side. He always lets me know when I need to put down the book, get the fuck up and move around a bit. How does he do this? He jumps off the bed and stares at me fixedly. Cake walks toward the door, looks back at me—clearly saying “c’mon, let’s go.” He repeats this until I get off my ass and follow him.

Such a good communicator. I’m pretty sure he’s part sheepdog and understands that his job is to herd us.
~~~

* Brian Eno is John Cage’s little brother or cousin or something. HONEST!
* King Crimson were time travelers. They came to us from the distant future. We are grateful.
* Emerson, Lake and Palmer were aliens from another, clearly more advanced, planet.
* Frank Zappa was a genius with a great sense of humor. Captain Beefheart was his badly behaved punk buddy. I think...
* Long John Baldry, contrary to what you may *think* you know or have read in Wikipedia, was not a pale white young Englishman but an elderly Black blues man from Mississippi.
* Tina Turner didn’t die—she was transported back to her home dimension (whose atmosphere is rife with energy, hope, strength, music and joy). She’s their queen—they missed her. Of course.

Also, Terry Bozzio and Micky Hart—mmm mmm mmmmmm. Percussion, yeah Babies. Quite possibly, these two gents are gods.
~~~
Peanuts have a lot of protein so peanut butter must then have a lot of protein. Protein is essential for a balanced diet.

Dark chocolate is good for us human types. It’s chockful of antioxidants (tied to lowered risk of heart disease) AND it has groovy vitamins and minerals too.

It follows then that peanut butter/dark chocolate chunk cookies are bountifully good for me and I should have some for breakfast.

Obviously!
~~~
One more reason to be pissed off that I’m deaf—Tina Turner doing Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love. I can’t hear this and that’s making me more than a little annoyed and sullen this morning.

I only mention it but I'd be a whole lot less pissy and unpleasant if I had another peanut butter/choco chunk cookie. World peace would be great too but I'll settle for a cookie.

Honestly

It’s Monday AGAIN.

This really shouldn’t be a big deal. After all, I’m retired. I’m not heading out to a job. Nope. What I am doing is heading into MGH for a two hour MRI (brain and thoracic spine). Mind you it’s an open MRI versus a thin ultra-claustrophobizing tube BUT it still wigs me out (just not quite as much). I began my chill-me-out regimen yesterday morning—half a tab of Lorazepam first thing in the AM and another half before going to bed (plus a gummy, thenkyewveddymuch). First thing this morning, I had another wee half with the rest of my vast collection of meds-Donna-takes-to-stay-alive. Am I done yet? Nope. I’ll take one last half (and maybe a gummy) half an hour before they load me into the machine.
~~~
A weird glitch just now occurred—the MRI shop called Jen. Somehow, two additional spine MRI’s were added to my load (so it would be brain and full spine instead of brain and thoracic spine). The shop didn’t have the time available to do all four scans today but could still do my brain today and the spine at 5:45 AM on Thursday.

ACKAMUNDO!

I emailed my neurologist's office to see if they’d, in fact, last minute added requests for the rest of my spine. NO, they had not. After some investigation, Jen found out that it was the radiologist at the MRI joint who added the extra scans.

WHY? Well, because patients with Neurofibromatosis Type 2 need to have their entire spine looked at. My first thought (after Gee Golly, REALLY Mister?!) was—isn’t this newbie special. He’s trying to make a good catch, save the day and look like a hero. What he didn’t take into account is that Doc Plotkin and I’ve been down this road already. Quite a bit in fact. If Radiology Guy had checked my history he would have seen that I’ve recently had my full spine done. The hot spot is currently in thoracic land.

What Mister Hubistic Radiologist accomplished in his bid to save the day with his “magnificent” catch, is to elevate my already high stress levels. Until we could get this sorted, we were scrambling for a way to get into the MRI office by 5:45AM Thursday and then back into Boston for my scan reviews with Plotkin at 2:30 that same afternoon. This is to say nothing of how hard it is for me to cool my claustrophobia jets for one MRI let alone four.

The other hard start to today? One year ago last night we had to send my beloved Coco (BEST CAT EVAH!) off to the Elysian Fields. I still miss her. OF COURSE I do.

I need some goddamn soft-serve with butterscotch coating NOW. please.

More Fire and Rain

Coco was not just a cat. She was my constant companion, my partner and helpmate through so many hard times. That she's gone now feels unreal and flat out WRONG.

I found a picture of you, oh-oh
Those were the happiest days of my life
Like a break in the battle was your part, oh-oh
In the wretched life of a lonely heart

Now I’m back on the train, yeah
Oh, back on the chain gang
The Pretenders—Back on the Chain Gang  

Paraphrasing Mr. James Thurber:

If I have any beliefs about immortality it is that certain cats I know will go to heaven, and very very few people.

(His heaven has certain dogs versus cats)

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
~ Isaac Asimov

Don’t cry because it’s over, Smile because it happened.
~ Dr. Seuss

A home without a cat — and a well-fed, well petted and properly revered cat — may be a home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?
~ Mark Twain

How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.
~ Winne the Pooh

I am ultra-lucky to have had her with me for as long as I did. She was such a very, very good girl.

Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.
~ Vicki Harrison 

Today

With apologies to Mister Simon:

Hello Monday my old foe
I've come to talk with you again
Because a dream, softly slinking
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my bean
Still remains
Within the pain of waking

I dreamed that my friend Jordan and his family had recently moved to Tuscany. I just happened to find this out when I ran into them while I was strolling the streets of San Gimignano.

Coupla things:

• I haven’t been to Italy in 10 years or more. Why is it in my head?
• IF I make it back there, it wouldn’t be to beautiful Toscana, I’d go to Gioia del Colle in the south. Why? It’s where my mother’s family comes from.

My next big travel destinations though, are much more likely to be Berlin (to see my cousin Della) and Iceland (yes…again. I’m really keen on Iceland, thenkyouveddymuch).

I’m a hair over halfway through my protonization. WooHoo! Unlike my last dance with the radiation demons, I’ve experienced zero nausea. Also, so far, my fatigue is more from the radical increase in my daily activities than getting shot with the laser beam.  (why, yes, now that you mention it, I DO have Queen in my head this morning)

Once protoning is over I’m gonna take a break from all this health shit (if my goddamn feeb-ass bod will cut me some fucking slack!). Maybe I’ll even go all wild and crazy and take a mini vaca. A few days in P-town? A weekend in the Vermont woods? An overnight adventure to Northampton? Southern Maine to see cousin Gary?

Lastly, I only mention it but, this is the third morning I've awakened without Coco standing on my chest, urging me to get the fuck up and pat her already. Things to do, places to be, Bitch! Wakey wakey already! Damn, I miss my evil princess.

Cat Tales

Mourning is a necessary thing. It’s bone-crushingly painful but necessary. Losing my precious Coco can’t be ignored, plopped into a shoebox and stowed away in the back of my closet. 

The process is not all sobbing, downing shots of Jamo and rending of garments. It also involves, (fer yurs truly and that’s who we’re talkin’ about here!) remembering so many of the good and utterly hilarious times.

It’s like this…

There was the night that Coco and TAB decided to play mouse badminton IN BED, AT NIGHT. TAB wrote a short narrative poem about the experience which starts with:

Donna in her T-shirt
   and I in mine own
Had just settled our brains
   for dreams of desserts
When all at once…

Full poem at the linky.

Coco was always a tremendously clear communicator. e.g., There was the time she had complaints about my hygiene.

"Why does Coco occasionally lick my hand when I’m patting her? I’m afraid that she feels I’m a bedraggled and, possibly, mentally slow thing. Ya know, she’s essentially saying, “Ooof, you are one filthy beast. Take a bath! Here, I’ll start you off.”"

The kitten pulled more than a few Houdini-ish antics in her extended youth—she became like a neutrino auditioning for a shot at CERN. In actuality, I suspect that our girl was just, thoughtfully, making sure I got in my day’s exercise. Of course.

I may’ve already mentioned this—Coco was a brill communicator.

"Mon petit lioness adamantly stands at the basement door – she’s letting me know that it’s time to explore the basement. It’s a fascinating place for her, filled with new, different shelves to clamber, tables to scale, a washer and dryer to examine and myriad canvases to smell. So many unfamiliar flavors to scent and new dark corners to check out! Spider webs – SQUEEEE!"

Back when we were a two tux household, after our dear Rocco moved in, Chez Valhalla became Maison Passive Agressive. Fer instance:

"…when they're both downstairs, Rocco will make a big show of eating out of her food bowl. Coco does the very same thing to him. Then there's the litter box battles. Though they each have their own personal latrine (which are at opposite ends of the house), both Coco and Rocco appear to get a great charge out of depositing the odd meadow muffin or taking the stray slash in the others' can."  

On top of being my faithful nurse, companion, personal comedian, brutal mouse assassin and Killer Queen, Coco was my sweet rescuer.

I am celebrating her life.

I had been told that the training procedure with cats was difficult. It’s not. Mine had me trained in two days.
~ Bill Dana

The only escape from the miseries of life are music and cats...
~Albert Schweitzer

“I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
CATS, he said eventually. CATS ARE NICE.”
~Terry Pratchett, Sourcery

I have studied many philosophers and many cats. The wisdom of cats is infinitely superior.
~Hippolyte Taine

It Was Time

Just 23 days ago our Princess Coco was diagnosed with bowel cancer with no chance of survival. The docs said she didn’t have much time left but didn’t give us a ballpark figure. I hoped for months. We got weeks.

On Wednesday, I noticed that my Angel Kitten seemed less exuberant, she was moving tenderly, slowly and needed a lift to get back up on the bed. Our girl had been eating less and was plagued with diarrhea. I asked Jen if she’d noticed anything else. Yes. Coco’s breathing was labored—a LOT labored. The cat cancer doc said this was one of the main tells that it would be time to bring in the Grim Reaper.

Her breathing became, between Thursday night and Friday morning, so difficult that I asked Jen to switch our Visiting Angel of Death appointment from Monday to that very afternoon I wanted her suffering to be over. 

Tragically, no Friday afternoon openings were available. The only way to put my kitten out of her misery was to bring her to the animal hospital in the next town over. I didn’t want to compound Coco’s suffering by putting her in the carrier and bringing her to a flourescently lit, strange smelling, crowded hospital ER.

Jen was able to find and get in touch with the wonderful traveling vet who helped us, five years ago, when it was Rocco’s time to board the express train outta this life. The vet lives here in our little town and was going to come over at noon today to escort Coco to the other side.

The thing is, between the time Jen arranged all this and her arrival home, Coco’s condition had drastically worsened. It was awful—my, now bony, little girl was just laying on the bed panting, her eyes pleading with me to help her. Coco’s rendezvous with Bast was now past due.

Jen called the Animal Hospital to make them aware of our needs (and imminent arrival). We all piled in her car—Ten and I in the back with Coco, wrapped in her mint green fuzzy blanket, cradled in my arms. I was speaking soft, loving words and lightly patting her when she pulled a paw out of the blanket and rested it on top of my hand. She wanted to hold my hand. Was she, as she’s consistently done during our 15 years together, comforting me—telling me everything was gonna be OK? Or was she finding relief and solace in our joined paws? Probably both.

Surprisingly, happily, the hospital had a lovely, well appointed, dimly lit private room set up for us (MGH could take some lessons from the South Shore VCA’s set up). The doctor, nurse and admin were all tremendously empathetic and supportive—it was over and done calmly, compassionately and relatively quickly.

The only thing leavening my mondo sad right now is knowing she’s out of pain, her distress has ended.

Kvetches and Cats

A small-ish complaint for the first Monday of the new year—this wall area at the Mission Hill Mass Eye and Ear office. It’s the text, not the art, that I have a problem with.   

‘and the deaf shall hear…’ In my head I see Charlton Heston, all decked out in Moses gear, loudly pronouncing this from the side of a mountain. Thunder and lightening break out immediately afterward. 

Also, what's behind that ellipsis? Is the omitted part of the sentence your mileage may vary? Had they intended to use an asterisk with annotations (say, a list of which deafies wouldn't hear) below? Did they forget their biblical source (Isaiah 29:18) so the ellipsis is the text equivalent of the designer flipping his/her hand saying 'Oh, you know. It's that bible thingie.'  I'm imagining the pitch meeting now: 'Why just put pics on the wall? Let's use grandiose text! Now, I can't remember the context but wouldn't this sentence fragment look GREAT here?'

I get that the, doubtless well-intentioned, wall art is meant to provide hope and wonder to the pool of deaf folk who are actually able, and want, to benefit from med advances so they can hear. That’s great. Meanwhile, I walked by the wall and thought, what a profoundly melodramatic, misleading and insensitive pile of one dimensional PR theater.

OK, it's a cold wet dreary Monday after a lovely long weekend. I think we need burrito cat pics. Don't you?