The Meeting Before the Meeting

Thursday comes, my car is packed and I am a wreck. Thank God for completely consuming work.

The meeting is at 6 pm. I can't wait for it to be done, but I'll go and be dutiful. It is a program serving kids with special needs. I can relate.  Besides, it is a 6 pm meeting. I am sure they'll be serving sandwiches or finger food of some kind. That is incentive enough.

I get to the meeting and it is galling. The meeting organizer is anything but organized. In her passion for her job, she inadvertently makes some pretty insensitive remarks. She also has failed miserably in the food department. Boring cookies, mini danish, coffee and water. 

Umm, hello, this is not a breakfast meeting.

To make matters worse, the meeting of invited advisers was expanded to include a handful of parents whose children had gone "through the system" without much support or success and who could provide valuable input about what would have been helpful and meaningful.

But instead, each one of them, in turn, goes on an individual endless discourse about their heartbreaking experiences, and extreme frustration and offers absolutely nothing that amounts to a suggestion or solution.  The meeting disintegrates into a 3 hour grouse-fest.  When the agenda reaches the part where we are supposed to mingle and exchange business cards, I take a cheese danish and a coffee for the road and scram.

On the way, I call James again, my moist astute of cat friends. He asks if the new kitty is a boy or a girl. I tell him Scott thinks it may be a boy but isn't sure. And that I think that is funny.  My friend tells me that the parts are a little confusing and that a girl's "parts" will look like an upsidedown exclamation point.  Now I'm confused.

But one way or another, in about an hour I'd be meeting my new kitty. Hil and Pat have agreed that if it is a boy he'll be Ringo, and if she's a girl, she'll be Gidget.  I just have to figure out who exactly is coming home in the gender-neutral green kitten bed.

What to Expect When You're Expecting

As I drive to PetSmart, I consult my two-cat-owners for advice.  I already have to ensure that the cats remain separated, since we have the threat of rabies in the air.  I am told they need separate food and separate kitty litters, and separate toys and need to be supervised until Little Kitty is at least 14 weeks old just because of her size. Trinket could inadvertently hurt her. And she is likely to want to hurt her on purpose, too.

My friend James says he put Plexiglas across a doorway and secured it with Velcro to let the cats see and smell each other without any safety concerns. This seems extreme. How bad is it going to be?

One charitable donation and $97.00 later, as I am leaving the store with a cart full of kitten friendly things and a few new distractions for Trinket, I ask the clerk if she knows anything about cats. She looks like a rare book collector, so it comes as no surprise that her self proclaimed specialties are cats and rare birds. Of course they are.

She tells me that I need to supervise their visits very closely.  Check every website I can find about cat behavior. Introducing the cats may prove challenging.  Cats are solo hunters. Dogs travel in packs so it is easy for Scott to bring home dog after dog. Trinket is going to want to run off the intruder. This is her mousing territory.  The little fur ball can go somewhere else to hunt. Or be eaten if she won't go away willingly.  he will be jealous of any affection shown to the new kid.

And her jealousy may take the form of peeing all over my house. Can't wait.

I am so not prepared for this. 

I decide I need a little time.  Thursday night I have a meeting for an organization that has invited me to sit on their advisory board.  It is nearer to Scott's house than mine and will last until about 8 pm. 

I call Lars. can the children come to his house on Thursday and star their week early with him. I have a late meeting and will miss dinner, and that would not be fair to them.  He agrees.

On Thursday after my meeting, I will head to Scott's with my $97.00 worth of kitty crap to meet the kitty and figure out what the hell I need to do. 

Homecoming for Kitty

Scott knows that the kitten is very popular with the ladies in the office who have been looking after it - and presumably its equally abandoned siblings.  They've cared for them and fed them and even have taken them home at night so they would not have to live outside and risk getting eaten by a rabid animal (Maybe a dog for a change of pace).

But he goes into the office the next day and announces that he is serious about taking the cat home to live and if anyone has an objection, whine immediately and we'll work it out (as in, he'll take it anyway. I don't envision a coin toss.)

I call later in the evening and ask him about Little Kitty.  He says he does not have her. That one of the ladies in the office asked if she could take it home one more night so her family could say goodbye and blah blah blah.  He said she could.

I am thinking the office lady is smarter than he thinks and she just swindled him out of his prize cat with his permission.  A modern day Butch Cassidy. 

And then I think that just like the stars aligned at the last moment when we adopted Trinket, if it is meant to be, it will be.  Maybe this lady really does just want to have one last cuddly evening with Little Kitty.  If she has more nefarious intentions, I guess we'll know tomorrow. And Scott will be pouring sugar in her gas tank. 

But the next day comes and the office lady reappears with the kitty and Scott is free to take her home.  She can stay at his house until I leave at the end of the weekend. I just need to plan to take her home on Sunday and be prepared for the new baby.

And suddenly I am in a panic. 

And steering my car toward PetSmart.

I think it would be easier to prepare for an actual human baby to come home.

Pet Therapy

I am not sure why I am crying.

Yes, I am. I am completely overwhelmed. I feel horribly guilty.  I adopted Trinket to take care of her and give her a better life than she'd have as a stray. And I haven't. Well except for the fact that I've fattened her up and she doesn't have to scrounge for her meals.  But that is the only thing I can check off the list.

I drive home expecting her to be cranky and ill-tempered. She is not. She is one of those pets that looks up at you and makes you think she appreciates the effort.  And returns the favor when it is you that is under the weather by curling up along side of you (and not just because you are running a 105 degree fever and feel nice and toasty). My guilt grows in leaps and bounds. I don't deserve such a nice pet. I deserve an aloof picky eater who scratches my furniture, and knocks over priceles heirlooms and uses my antique settee as a toilet.

For the rest of the day, Trinket sits by my side curled up on a pillow as I watch football.  She keeps my spot warm when I get up to stir the chili or get a new beer.  She is purring and sweet even if she is oozy and sticky in a way that kind of grosses me out. Again, I don't deserve her.

As the week goes on, Trinket progresses. The scratching subsides and so the leprosy starts to go away.  But don't ask her to take the damn antihistamine pills.  I cut the pill in half. I hold my breath and roll it in the salmon flavored pill pocket that has the texture of Silly Putty and probably tastes as good.   Then I get salmon flavored yuck all under my nails as I dig out the pill and roll it in the chicken falvored Silly Putty after she turns her keen little pink nose up at the salmon. 

We scrape our paws around the Chicken putty like we are attempting to cover our own feces. It is that appealing. 

I crush the pill and sprinkle it in tiny bit of warmed chicken. Actual chicken. Actual chicken that is fit for human consumption!  No dice.

I open a can of tuna in oil (a crowd favorite) and grind the second half of the pill into it.  Trinket dives in, then after two miniscule bites, smacks her kitty lips and looks at me like I must be kidding. 

I will not attempt a flea bath right now.  No sir. I've aggravated my finicky little feline enough. Submerging her in water will be the straw that breaks her camel's back for sure.

Or so I think. Actually, the real final straw is yet to come.

Tuesday afternoon while I am at work, Scott texts me. 

"Kitten is ready to come home. Are you sure you want him?" 

I have my hands full. My cat is on quarrantine. I have a flea infestation problem.  Am I insane?

I text him back.

"Yes!" so he doesn't sense my doubt. And then I make a note to return to the pet store for more flea killing chemicals to bomb my house with.  Mama's bringing home a new baby.

Flea Flicker

I am feeling better.

Trinket is not amused.

She gets flea medication. She is not at all happy about goo being dribbled on her neck where she can't wipe it off.

She gets an antihistamine shot.  She is evidently allergic to flea saliva.  What?

And for the big finale, she gets an antibiotic. Not a liquid. Not a pill. Another shot. And for this one, Dr. H brings out the gear.

First, to prevent any scratching potential from my beast of unknown rabies status, the good
Doctor picks her up in a bath towel. That way even if The Trink decides to treat Dr. H's arm like a scratching post, she is ensnared in a terry wonderland of confinement.

In comes the tech. She is carrying a weird plasticy, leathery-looking thing with strings. It looks like a little cat-sized bustier.

Not so. It is a muzzle. Evidently Trinket will be inspired to bite as well.

The tech straps the bustier on Trinket's face and tightens the laces. She can not open her little toothy feline mouth even a hair.

But she can peer through the little hole at the end of the cone at me. I can see her and she can see me. And her face says it all. "I will kill you the minute I get out of this thing. This is your only warning."

And then in a lilting, sing-spongy voice, Dr. H pulls out a syringe and puts a whammy on my cat. Then with jackrabbit swiftness, the tech scoops her away and jams her into her carrier, deftly removing the bustier as she slams the door shut.

Then I get a little lesson on displaced aggression and avoiding being bitten by my potentially rabid cat.

And I get flea meds, flea saliva oatmeal shampoo, some antihistamine pills, a pill cutter, some salmon pill pockets, some chicken pill pockets, some info on flea infestation, a bill for $186.00 and a business card from Dr. H.

One-hundred-eighty-six dollars? No wonder she's so damn pleasant.

I take my stunned and pissed off cat to the car and get in.

And then I cry.

Fleas for Two, and Two for Fleas

Dr. Hoffmeir, while ooh-ing and aah-ing over Trinket is also giving her a good once-over, as my mother would say (when she was speaking to me, that is.)

She says something about Trinket's condition, it ends in "-itis" and makes me think of pimples. How pleasant. And she says, that when we see a case like this, we think of two things.

Do we now?  I was thinking two things, too.  "Bad mother" and "certain death" but I am hoping you were not thinking the same two things.

She continues, despite my thought bubbles filling the room.

"We think of food allergies..."

I interject. "I DID just change her food. She was not eating the other food anymore. I changed it to see if maybe she was just bored - and not losing her appetite because of...you know."

"Ok, now we're getting somewhere. I would change it back."

Check. Food bag is going into the trash.

"And the other things is fleas."

Fleas?  Come on!  She's an indoor cat!

I tell her that Scott is a veteran pet owner and had said the same thing. But I'd checked her over and had not found any. Not that I'd know what I was looking for. I couldn't pick a flea out of a line up.

While I am defending my position on fleas, she is taking out a fine tooth comb, squirting it with something sterile-looking and tapping it on a cloth.  She returns to Trinket and runs it down her sleek, gray back.

Two fleas!!!!!!

OMG I am beginning to itch from head to toe.  I am picturing the little critters in every nook and cranny in the house. I have visions of bad Saturday night horror movies from my babysitting years. Like the one about the scientist whose house gets taken over by superdooper bugs who spell out messages on his walls before they come after him. 

Dr. Hoffmeir can tell I am freaking out.  She remains calm. A battle grizzled veteran of the Flea Wars, I am sure. She sends the tech out for some provisions. I am hoping there is an Irish Coffee somewhere in the order.

The tech returns (no Irish Coffee, natch) and Dr. Hoffmeir talks me through her treatment.

It is almost more for me than for Trinket. The woman is amazing.  In a matter of minutes my skin has stopped crawling, and I am feeling in control. 

Note to self. No more appointments with Dr. Tyson.

Total Grossarama

I ask Scott what to do.

He says to open the door and let her run out. 

Ha ha. Very funny.  Why don't I just hold the door for you, smart ass?

I call the Vet. Miraculously, they answer on Saturday night at 9. These are some boring pet lovers. The person who answers seems very nice.

I tell the person on the phone what is happening. Then I back up and tell her the whole story from the point of discovering the bat.  I tell her the evil Dr. Tyson took lots and lots of condemning notes if she wants a good read. 

She is still very nice even after I've disclosed that I am a nincompoop and an unfit pet owner. I shouldn't even have plants.

She tells me that there is probably not a lot they can do.  I could bring her in but unless it is really life threatening, I could avoid a steep Emergency visit and just bring her in tomorrow. She gives me an appointment.

I am sure Trinket could hack off her own head with those claws but I am fairly confident that it won't happen tonight.

Scott and I turn in for the night, taking the oozy, scratching feline with us.

I am overwhelmed with guilt. I did this. If I were a better parent none of this would have happened. Why did I let her vaccinations lapse?  I take better care of my car and I don't even care about my car.

I cry quietly and Scott lays there next to me trying to figure out how to console his hysterical girlfriend and still get a little shut-eye. 

Morning comes.   We have breakfast. Trinket scratches some more. I get dressed and get ready to go.  Trink is supposed to still be quarantined so I can't take anyone with me for moral support. My cover would be blown. I can't actually comply with anything.

I get to the vet's office. A nice tech comes out to greet us. She lets Trinket out of the carrier and picks her up in her ungloved hands.

I am freaking out!!!!  "Aren't you afraid of rabies?" I shriek.  She looks at me like I might have them - and I've got the addles brain to prove it.

"No, I'm vaccinated." 

Well goody for you. Your mother must be a very good one.

She puts Trinket down and returns with Dr. Hoffmeir.  She is a little, rotund older lady with gray curls. I am certain she is wicked.

I am wrong.

She bops into the room gushing! "Oh just look at this gorgeous cat!  Those eyes!  What a beauty!  And such a pretty coat. What seems to be the trouble, my little darling?"

I am so relieved I could cry.