Here There and Everywhere

Expat wanderer

The Ninth Circle of Hell: Treachery

It’s a normal, peaceful, quiet Friday afternoon when my husband says “I want you to see this” and everything changes. He is about to clean out the cat litter box, when, (and really, this is propitious, not a bad thing) he spots blood on a recent stool. I quickly find a jar and a plastic spoon, scoop out the incredibly smelly bloody mess and seal it quickly. Within minutes, we are in the car and on our way to the veterinarian with Ragnar.

Our veterinarian is not the poshest vet in town, but he is one we consider very knowledgeable and down to earth. He may seem unemotional – that’s probably a good thing when dealing with sick or hurt animals and their anxious owners – but we always feel confident he will tell us the truth as he knows it, and he knows a lot.

It’s first come, first served unless it’s an emergency, and they are all emergencies on a Friday afternoon. There is already a long line waiting to sign in. We get in line, and before the office has even opened for the afternoon, there is a long line behind us.

My husband is a good man; he has offered to take Ragnar by himself. For many years, I had all the cat-to-the-vet duties, and he is trying to even things out, trying to give me a break, and in return, when it might be really serious, I always go with him so he doesn’t have to make a serious decision about an animal he loves by himself.

Going to the vet is probably one of my least favorite experiences in the world. I am empathetic. I am empathetic with people, and also with animals. My sense of smell is very strong. At the veterinarian office on this Friday, I smell the damp fur of anxiety, the involuntary urine, the smell of sickness and fear, and I have to do breathing patterns to keep down my own overwhelming sense of sorrow and turbulent stomach.

There is a lot of noise, people talking, dogs yipping, the waiting cats mostly scared and silent. There is one dog, somewhere, scared and in pain, and he makes a long, low, loudly mournful moan, time after time. It is the ninth circle of hell, the circle of treachery, and although we are trying to do the right thing for our little loved ones, they are in misery, and betrayed by the people they love and count on to take care of them.

We wait a long time, two hours, before the vet can even see us, and it is not the vet we trust, but an associate vet.

So the good news is that she is a compassionate veterinarian, and also knowledgeable; she wins our trust. Another piece of good news, Ragnar, although ill, is docile and curious. He is greatly unafraid, both a blessing and a curse, but part of his nature. She analyzes the sample, tells us it is full of bacteria, speculates briefly on the cause and gives us a container full of half pills to take home, advising us that they taste bad and to wrap them in butter or cream cheese.

We are all so glad to get out of there we come home and take naps. We are emotionally spent. Being home again helps. Snoozing helps.

The veterinarian very kindly had the pills split in half for Ragnar and soon it was time to give him his first pill, which is truly a two person job. Ragnar is usually ver good about taking pills, but there are two problems. The first is that the pill tastes very bad. The second is that because it is split in half, it has corners and is not so easy to swallow as a round pill. We also discovered that cream cheese was not a good medium for Ragnar; we wasted a half a pill and thoroughly frightened our cat during the cream-cheese experiment, and we had cream-cheesy cat drool throughout the house.

In very short time, Ragnar is back to being fully his lively, curious, fearless, active self and, at the risk of being indelicate, his stool was back to normal, and not bloody. He still has to take the pills, but with butter, we are getting it done and he forgets and forgives by a minute or two after the pill trauma.

March 23, 2021 Posted by | Circle of Life and Death, Cultural, Family Issues, Pets | , | Leave a comment

The Patter of Little Feet

AdventureMan said “I’m ready.”

 

He caught me by surprise.

 

We lost Zakat in July; one Saturday night at bedtime, he noticed Zakat had a dime-sized hole in his side. In the time it took us to get dressed and head for the animal emergency care hospital, it had grown to the size of a quarter. As we waited – the hospital was full, that night, of heartbreaking cases – it continued to grow. We had to leave him there to be sewn up, but they called us and told us that his skin wouldn’t hold stitches, and other lesions had opened. “A cat can’t live without skin” she said. We had to let him go.

 

When we adopted him, we hoped we would have more time with him. Zakat was the sweetest cat we have ever had, just full of love and trust. He was also FiV positive, feline AIDS, and he was susceptible to everything. He lost teeth. He had frequent pink eye. He would have fevers. He had skin problems. Through it all, he was sweet. When we lost him, we were desolate. AdventureMan said “No more cats.”

 

I think Trump changed his mind. I think he had to do something to fight our increasing dismay and outrage, we had to have some source of laughter in our lives. We know these immigrants he wants to keep out; we have lived among them and know them, for the most part, to be peaceful, hospitable people, very much like the people we live among in Pensacola. We have trans friends, and gay friends, and to limit their freedom threatens our own, for where do you start restraining those who hate? We prefer to drink untainted water, and to breathe unpolluted air, and we trust the EPA to measure, and to confront, and to enforce. And we want to trust in the “truthiness” of our elected officials, which we demonstrably cannot.

 

We have become activists. Who would have though it?

 

And, to nourish our souls, we have adopted Ragnar, a Russian Blue mix, and Uhtred, a creamy gold total mutt, both street cats, both sweet and funny and playful and delightful. Our house is once again a jumble of scattered and wrinkled carpets, dining room chairs knocked out of place, training not to go on countertops, and clear duct tape on the furniture to train them not to scratch there, but on the scratching posts.  They give us joy, and a delightful reason to get up in the morning.

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So, thank you, Donald Trump, for being so obnoxious and so depressing that we welcomed the diversion of these two delightful little angels into our household. One small step to help a hurting world.

February 27, 2017 Posted by | Aging, Circle of Life and Death, Civility, ExPat Life, Family Issues, Free Speech, Living Conditions, Political Issues, Quality of Life Issues, Relationships, Social Issues, Values | , , , , , | 4 Comments