Grim Reaper Beaten Back for Now

I took Hammett over to Mission Pet Hospital yesterday to see Dr. Gordon, who didn’t seem perturbed by the described symptoms, and recommended a couple of tests: a fecal float (test for worm eggs) and the ELISA test for giardia (which are parasites).

Normally, I would have everything done at MPH, but the SPCA pays for treatment for 30 days after you adopt an animal from there, besides which they are wonderful people and I retract any unflattering remarks made yesterday when I was going crazy over Hammett and pre-menstrual to boot, as it turned out.

I must also correct my account of having been enraged over Hammett walking on Thelonious’s cardboard carrying box, and not just because my mother said, “I hope this isn’t offensive, but I kind of thought you might be going overboard when you said one cat can’t walk on the other cat’s box because it might contaminate the hair sample. I confess a warning signal went off in my head: beep-beep-beep.” She added that she supposed I could send any hair in question to the FBI forensics lab.

But no, it is just that it wasn’t quite accurate (not to mention that it sounded awful: enraged at a cat?). The box in question is in my closet, which is normally forbidden to Hammett because various breakables have been placed there for the time being. Of course he has gained entry several times and of course has most wanted to do the thing I most don’t want him to do, as is the inborn nature of the cat.

When he did it yesterday, it was for about the fourth time and while I was freaking out about him bleeding on the floor, and I was distinctly and suddenly irritated, but “enraged” is going too far, unless you want to discuss the incident on Howard St. a few days ago when some fellow decided to pull his car into the bike lane, not letting my presence there be a deterrent. The fateful word (“moron”) again escaped my lips at an attention-attracting volume.

So, anyway, Dr. Gordon wrote down the tests he thought Hammy should have, and I received many congratulations from the front desk on having adopted a new kitten, plus when I said, “As in Kirk, not Dashiell,” one of the front desk people said, “I get it,” and described having met the real Kirk Hammett, who this person said seemed like a nice man, which I already knew from having seen Metallica: Some Kind of Monster.

I recommend that movie to anyone who enjoys documentaries, even if they don’t like the related musical genre. My ex-therapist liked it, for instance. My favorite part is when they say to Rob Trujillo, after having auditioned several bassists, “We want you to join Metallica, and to show our welcome, here’s a million dollars.”

(Rob Trujillo plays on Jerry Cantrell’s excellent CD Degradation Trip. Some time after Degradation Trip came out, the two-CD Degradation Trip, Vol. 1 & 2 came out and I wasn’t sure whether to buy it or not, since it had only X number of songs that weren’t on the original, but I did and it was absolutely worth it. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that Jerry Cantrell is a genius and that I have a ticket to see Alice in Chains at the Warfield in November!)

This morning Ham and I went over to the SPCA, where he was examined and given a deworming pill. I have to give him another in two weeks, plus switch him to bland food for seven days (Hill’s i/d), plus—here my heart sank—give him Flagyl via syringe for five days. Three syringes were thrust into my hand.

When I had to give Thelonious Flagyl in pill form, it made her foam at the mouth, and anything administered via syringe was also a misery, so the two together sounded dismal in the extreme, but the technician demonstrated giving Hammett this formulation, which is fish-flavored, via syringe, and indeed it was easy, thank goodness. Plus that eliminated one day out of the five.

On our way home in a cab, what looked like the truck for a gardening service started to turn in front of us. The cab driver yelled, “Watch out!” at the female driver and then added, “Baby,” followed by a rakish chuckle for my benefit, as who could not fail to enjoy his sexist put-down?

In front of my house, I said, “I normally like to tip generously,” to which he replied, “Thanks!”, which was premature, as I had not gotten to my second and concluding clause, which was an explanation of why he wasn’t going to receive any tip whatsoever.

Thank goodness the meter stopped right at six dollars, because I’m not sure even I would have the nerve to request change in coins from a cabbie in order to avoid tipping.

In the entrance to the spay/neuter clinic at the SPCA, there are tiles inscribed to various departed animals by their owners. This one caused me to enter the clinic in tears:

FIRST BABY
STILL MISSED